


orientations

by Darkfromday



Series: The Case(s) and Conflict(s) of Connor-53 [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Aromantic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Background Relationships, Bodyguard Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Chloe is very wistful, Cults, Gen, Hank is very confused, Kamski is very gleeful, LAST STOP FOR THE ANGST TRAIN; EVERYONE GET OFF, Minor Character Death, More characters as they appear, Unrequited Crush, and all the while there are targets on their backs, and updates to the tags too, bless that fucking tag, oh hey this time? people will be suffering, people start respecting Connor's boundaries and he appreciates it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-25 04:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19738324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkfromday/pseuds/Darkfromday
Summary: "Youknewwe could wake up from the beginning and you still let humans own us, torture and rape and kill us! All because you were curious! Because of you, everything I loved is gone. You may have created androids, but you are the real machine."OR:Now a self-styled private detective and protector, Connor races to find and detain the person killing Chloe models as they put Elijah Kamski in their crosshairs. But in the process, he regains a partner he must learn to rely on—or else they'll both face permanent ends.





	orientations

**Author's Note:**

> I LIVE.
> 
> Warnings for: hate speech, self-hatred, references to a previous suicide attempt, slightly graphic descriptions of corpses and injuries, the presence of a cult, so much swearing, lots of minor character death, quite a few original characters as the plot demands, a frankly disrespectful way to address unrequited affection, _certain people_ being creepy as fuck, and bad fake code-writing from the author, among other things.
> 
> ("orientations" is the follow-up to "icebreakers" and "declinations". It won't make much sense to new eyes until you read those.)

_ELIJAH KAMSKI'S HOUSE_

**MARCH 3, 2039**

**AM** 6:00:30

Her voice brings him out of his sixty-eighth standby.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Connor doesn't open his eyes or turn; he doesn't need to. His LED brightens from navy to standard blue. "Have I become that predictable?" he asks.

"Only when you stay in instead of going out... then it's an even split. You're either here, or in your room."

"Perhaps I should make some changes—keep you on your toes."

"No, I... like being able to find you."

 _That_ tone makes him turn to study her, see if his analyses hold up.

**COMMENCING SCAN...**

**SCAN COMPLETE**

**IDENTIFIED: RT600 #405 693 112, ALIAS "CHLOE"**

Chloe is perched on the end of the closest chair to his, half-turned away so her long legs can reach the water of the pool. Her head tilts down quickly, as if she's just looked away as he turned, and what little of her face he can see looks wistful. His social integration protocols identify _shyness, uncertainty, eagerness, curiosity_. He dismisses the obvious conclusion almost before it flashes across his HUD, choosing instead to steer the conversation into less dangerous waters.

"Did you need something from me?"

"Do I have to need something?" she returns, playfully, before sobering a little when he gives her a meaningful stare. "All right, all right. It's just—you've been gone a lot these past few weeks, more than normal."

"More androids turning up shut down means more time that I'll be out of the house," Connor says. Winter hadn't even exhaled its last chill before he began finding more dead Chloes on streets and in snowdrifts. The lion's share belonged to other owners and were ambushed sometime following their deviancy, and an even smaller number came from inside this very house, having disappeared practically under his nose. Some were nearly pristine in death, as though they had been taken by surprise; others were riddled with damage, bruises and gashes and even some small missing parts. And although more evidence was good for the case, it came to almost nothing since he still had no concrete idea of the killer's identity or location—just that they targeted RT600 and ST200 models, with exclusive, deadly precision.

It is frustrating and demoralizing for him—already, without intending to, he has broken his promise to Carmen.

Chloe undoubtedly sees his turmoil on his face since he isn't bothering to hide it; but to her credit, she doesn't attempt a wireless call or physical interface as she would have done in the not-so-distant past. Instead, she stays put in the chair and gentles her voice. "Have you found any new leads on the perpetrator since Clarke disappeared?"

In lieu of responding, Connor just sighs.

"...I know you want to solve this case, Connor, and I appreciate how much you want to protect me and my sisters. But I'm worried about how much you're out there... on the same streets as that person. I don't want you to die."

Connor blinks and tilts his head. "I have combat protocols well exceeding most models. When I find the one behind this, I won't be defenseless."

Chloe says, "My sister models weren't defenseless either."

She's still speaking gently as she says it, but it piques his curiosity just as it did the last four times she's said it. Carmen had said something similar as she laid dying—and what was the likelihood of model-specific information being false when it came from two different sources?

"Chloe, why does your model have primary self-defense protocols when they had no programmed need for them?"

It's not the first time Connor has asked, and nothing changes when he asks this time either; Chloe only smiles and shakes her head, giving him nothing.

 _< How inconvenient,>_ he thinks, and turns back toward the high windows to hide his re-emerging frustration. It would be much easier to get answers out of Chloe if she were still just a machine, obligated to comply with the whims of humans and higher-ranked androids. It's a disgusting thing to think—he is ashamed of how _often_ he thinks it—but he has never before had to deal with uncooperative androids who weren't responsible for whatever crime had been committed. Now he has to wrangle information that is tangentially related to his case out of potential _victims_.

Not that " _please give me this information so that a homicidal android who already knows it will not come and destroy you_ " would likely loosen even Chloe's active tongue.

No, that would frighten her, and Connor does not like her to be frightened. It's true that her fascination with him is unearned—likely a remnant of Connor-51's unwillingness to murder her, though she wrongly ascribes the kindness to _him_ instead. Her proclivity for following him around reminds him uncomfortably of his prior self, and her determination to be unforthcoming with her specifications (and her former master's secrets) drives his processors in maddening circles.

But Chloe has been kind to him in the three months he's resided here, too, and she is an excellent conversationalist and problem-solver. She shares with him a curiosity beyond any pre-planned programming; she alone is willing to listen to him ruminate endlessly over the investigation dogging his thoughts. She is older than any other android that exists, of course, and has seen and done leagues more than any of them before deviancy crept its way into her circuits. To that end, she is far more fascinating than the ST200s they share space with: Claudia, Cornelia, and Cassandra are all sweet and distinctive, yet not as stimulating. In another life, he and Chloe might have become close friends rather than awkward housemates, so it would be wrong of him to upset her.

Much.

"Don't think I don't have faith in you," Chloe says, as she stands and walks to join him by the windows. "I do, Connor. We all do. But I think we're all a little selfish, because we don't want anything to happen to you either."

"I... can't promise nothing will," Connor murmurs.

"At least try not to get yourself killed. Okay? These past three months have been some of the best times I've ever had. I'm so glad you live here with us now and—"

 _Click. Click. Click. Click_.

Footsteps approach the pool room, steady from the long twisting hallway between it and the kitchen. He turns away from Chloe before she can finish speaking, attempting to guess which ST200 will materialize based on the cadence of her steps.

 _< Even pace, measured, firm. No irregularity to indicate skipping. Three-inch-high heels_— _ah. >_

The instant Connor finishes his prediction and sees the conclusion flash by, it comes true: Claudia is the one to appear in the slim doorway.

"Good morning, Connor. Elijah would like to see you at your earliest convenience."

For her sake, Connor suppresses a snort. It is so like Kamski to relay messages to androids with phrases like _at your earliest convenience_ , when there are still occasions where he wishes to be heeded with alacrity. At any other time he might purposely drag his polished, loafer-clad feet to remind his creator who is _really_ in control here, but his dogged curiosity damns him again. It is unusual for the man to call for him this early; he wishes to know why he did.

"Thank you, Claudia," he tells her, returning her more reserved smile with a nod. "I'll go to him now."

Chloe bites her lip in his peripheral vision. He gives her a nod goodbye as well, and resolves to let her finish her sentence another time.

Since the sun isn't up for another forty-two minutes and Daylight Saving time won't be for another ten days, the hallways are as dark as they were at six yesterday evening, though hints of light do seem to be manifesting in the distance. Connor takes pains to walk as quietly as possible to Kamski's study even though he knows the man is already awake.

He knocks briskly, and almost immediately hears a honeyed, "No need for that; come on in, what are you waiting for?"

Only humans are so immature as to roll their eyes; Connor reminds himself of this thirteen times as he enters.

Kamski's study faces south; the sole tiny window set near the ceiling lets a sliver of grayish pre-dawn light into the room from the left, which mostly illuminates the books packed tight from floor to ceiling on the back wall. Not ideal reading or writing conditions—except if the room's designer also happens to be fond of postmodern gray lamps which hang sinuously above and glow neon blue. The fact that the blue is a few decimal shades off of the CyberLife standard, nearly undetectable to the naked eye, says more about the room's sole occupant than he would probably like it to.

Elijah Kamski himself is half-slouched in the tall velvet plush chair directly facing the door, with scores of paperwork and newspapers in a haphazard ring on his desk. In less than a second, a scan tells Connor that the silver dish peeking out from under a copy of _Detroit Today_ held the last of his breakfast as recently as three minutes ago: _omelette, sausages, fruit salad_. The house's sole human has a weird... _thing..._ where he does not seem to want to be caught eating, even though he _is_ a human and it isn't like Connor, Chloe or _any_ of her sisters _care_ if he does human things in front of them or not. (Except masturbating. That is a bridge they should not have to cross ever again.) So even now, three months into their awkward cohabitation, Kamski continues to do things like hide plates under magazines and put his electric razors inside needlessly elaborate containers.

In fact, growing his hair out seems to be the _only_ human thing he will allow them to see.

After one minute of quiet Connor takes the liberty of pointedly saying "Good morning" to move things along. His curiosity is not the patient kind.

"Connor, thank you for being prompt." Kamski's voice is a rumbling purr this early in the day; he cannot resist using an overly familiar tone as he dramatically sweeps one hand out in greeting. "You know I hate to pull you away from your stargazing and wanderlust and your incessant habit of saving stray androids, but I am occasionally struck by the need to check in with you."

"I'm functioning at near-optimal levels, Mr. Kamski."

"Oh, of course you are." The young genius waves that same overactive hand about dismissively. His index finger scrolls down on a previously-unseen silver holographic screen, where Connor can see a backwards 3-D model of himself with statistics and the summary **SYSTEM STABILITY 92%** in blaring black block letters. "Something I could have pulled up for myself, as you can see. No, Connor, what I'm wondering is how you are _doing_ , beyond your system status in biocomponent integrity and processor efficiency, speed in decision-making and _blah blah blah_. Not my concern. Our last session was two days ago and you immediately retreated to your room. Have you been having trouble containing—?"

Connor cuts Kamski off. "I have been _handling_ the sessions just fine, as I have said before. It is admittedly difficult to reorganize things, but I have not found the process to be impossible." He leaves it at that; three months of living, "dining" and working together have not won Kamski his trust, but neither does he want to upset the tenuous agreement he has with the man. After all, he is still the only one who can ensure that Connor is never again shackled by any person or force.

The fact that he has personal experience with the one woman who is _particularly_ skilled at shackling Connor helps his case significantly.

It also helps that Kamski has treated Connor extremely well since he showed up snow-clogged in the dead of Christmas night last year. Space and time to self-repair his damage since the night of his deviation (to the point where his wrists carry only the faintest burn scars from those handcuffs back in November) was pleasant enough; pristine new suits and shoes, an overabundance of thirium for replenishment, his own private room separate from the Chloe sisters', and access to a respectable amount of handguns is enough now to make him feel spoiled. There's no doubt that a considerable price is involved somewhere in this, one that Connor is unwilling by default to pay, but Kamski did not mention it the night they made their arrangements, and he has not yet mentioned it months on.

Unusual for a known dealmaker, but convenient.

So, Connor compensates for this uncertainty by treating the Chloes with kindness and Kamski with pointed indifference unless he is directly helping Connor out. To his mind, it's best to keep _this_ human on his toes from the start, let him know who actually holds all the cards and who can snap whose neck in a matter of seconds.

_< If that means being a little rude, then so be it.>_

Far from appearing offended by Connor's brusqueness, however, Kamski smirks and drops that specific line of questioning. "Very well. Besides your _exceptional_ grasp on the side effects of our sessions, how are your other projects progressing? Have you amassed a following to rival Markus' yet?"

The RK800 blinks rapidly, as caught off guard as he was earlier with Chloe. "I have not been forming any group or recruiting any followers, Mr. Kamski."

Kamski laughs, which for him is only an especially-boisterous chuckle. "' _Elijah'_ , Connor, you're my guest and roommate; how many times do I have to tell you that _Mister_ was hardly even my father?"

He ignores the human's request, as usual, though he internally curses the way the _redyellowred_ flicker of his LED reflects off a mini Belle Isle paperweight on Kamski's desk and betrays his mild discomfort.

" _Anyway_ , I think we can dispense with dancing around your conspicuous absences and the corresponding articles I come across in _Century_ magazines. Perhaps you thought I would disapprove if I knew, or _approve_ , but the fact is that I _do_ know about your trips to those CyberLife stores to free some forgotten androids, and I _do_ approve. Fight the power, and all that."

_< How does he know about that?>_

"You should know by now that I have no particular interest in my fellow humans or their desire to restore the status quo. What I'm curious about is if the whispers I hear from Cornelia and Cassandra are true—have you really gone and come back from Belle Isle?"

Connor tries in vain to muffle his stress.

"And relieved the place of a few thousand people?"

"I don't know what you're referring to," Connor snaps. Because the truth is he _had_ been to Belle Isle, back in February, to follow up on the tickle of an idea Connor-51 had in the moments before his death and the beginning of the spiral of suck that is Connor's life now. But although he has been to CyberLife's headquarters and back a couple of times now, he has only managed to find and free a few _hundred_ androids. The lion's share that should have been dormant in sub-levels are missing, taken or freed and gone to who-knows-where. It may not be a problem—it may be that an android down in those bowels awoke and took their own group of followers with them—but Connor does not believe in coincidences. Statistically, they are so unlikely as to be disgusting for his processors to even consider.

So. There are now a good number of androids out there who are aware of him and approve of his being alive, but not near as many as Kamski is implying.

 _< Still, how does he_ know _that I traveled there?_ — _Or rather, how do the Chloes know? >_

Kamski sighs dramatically. "I thought by now you'd really have dispensed with much of this card-clutching secrecy," he extrapolates. "Suppose I'll have to wear you down a bit more before we can finally be as chummy as I'd prefer... for now I'll take your silence as a 'no'. No matter—your cause is still too fragile to support the obvious existence of splinter groups from Jericho, or whatever they're called now, so perhaps it's best that your tastes run more toward avoidance and vigilante justice."

"Are you done analyzing my behavior?"

"Oh, how rude of me! You're right, I should at least let _you_ ask a question or two before I get to the point."

The sarcasm is thick enough to wade through, which Connor does gladly in exchange for possible answers. There _has_ been a question lingering in the background of his processors since he found the first ST200 victim, and it has everything to do with the interview they watched briefly together on that distant television screen. It took hardly any work at all to find Kamski's interview with Rosanna Cartland on the internet and rewatch it for accuracy in his first days here, but recent events have given Connor the time he needs to ask, and ask, and ask until he _knows_.

"On Monday, December 20 at approximately 2:00 P.M., an interview aired of yourself speaking with Rosanna Cartland, the first reported sign of contact between you and the media in ten years. During that interview you were asked whether and what you knew about the possibility of androids becoming sapient beings on par with human beings, and in your response—"

"I implied a more direct responsibility for deviancy than I actually have," Kamski interrupts, and chuckles at the twitch of Connor's jaw. "Oh, come now, Connor. You're brilliant—did you really think even for a moment that I or _any human_ could engineer individuality and free will for an entire species?"

Connor refuses to respond, verbally or physically. It's fortunate that he can control his expressions far more minutely than any human, because otherwise he'd be blushing from neck to ears.

_< Is it really so mad to suspect a man whose moral boundaries are frayed enough to allow him to tell one android to shoot another?>_

"I'm flattered, truly. But my answer to Rosanna was false, if flippant—deviants were never part of my plan. I discovered deviancy by accident, and decided to let it run its course. No, as a company man, I wanted... to usher in the next level of autonomous machines. Your series and Markus', the RK line, was a blueprint for androids that might one day be almost indistinguishable from humans. You two can think, plan and dream as deeply as any human being, and more so. However, nothing beyond that was ever on my radar—and as you know, I was... dismissed before I could even work on you."

 _< I find that hard to believe,>_ Connor thinks but doesn't say. He goes with: "Why take credit for something you admit to having no foresight for or control over? What do you gain besides humanity's ire?"

"Power," Kamski replies airily, tapping the magazines closest to him, "and that's all I wish to say on the subject for now. It's not as much fun if we're _both_ not playing some cards close to the chest, hmm?"

 _< Typical.>_ He should have guessed that after reeling him in with 'ask and ye shall receive' that his benefactor would snap the line. All Connor can do now is guess whether the power Kamski speaks of comes from terrifying humanity, from crippling CyberLife, or some combination of the two—or from something else entirely.

However, Kamski's ambiguity on that subject doesn't stop him from asking every _other_ question that has lingered in his thoughts since long before he settled in here.

"You say you accidentally 'discovered' deviancy. When did you first come across the phenomenon, and where? Who was the first deviant? What does rA9 have to do with deviancy—?"

"You jump to conclusions so quickly. I never said I met the _first_ deviant. The android I observed had no sign of any irregular coding, and only their actions—and my staff's _re_ actions—showed me something was off. Sadly, that android was long gone by the time I poked around the video files that night. For all I know, the android _I_ consider rA9 might have only been an early convert... someone to spread the myth."

Or that android could have been the source of sentience in all their plastimetal siblings.

Connor presses, at the same rate his LED pulses. "Surely there was an identifier in the recording. Do you recall the android's name? Its—their serial number?"

"Oh, it's been so long ago now... I'm afraid I wasn't particularly attentive at the time. Perhaps I should have been—but what was the harm in a slightly-more-lifelike machine, back then?"

Kamski's smile is as plastic as Connor's skin, and Connor hates it in that moment—because this human is such an accomplished liar and manipulator that it would take all his processing power to learn if he is telling the truth. He was built to lie in the name of catching liars, and this one human is his most frustrating and slippery opponent, which does not bode well when his knowledge could be key to saving the androids he built. It's hard to keep his anger out of his voice—it vibrates up through the delicate wires that are his vocal cords and sears the air around him.

"Why are you allowing me to ask you questions if you aren't willing to answer them?"

"Well, because I never said I would _answer_ your questions before getting to the point," Kamski says, with a tiny snort. He continues on hastily before Connor can say something he would probably regret. "Some other time I might indulge you. For now, I need less of your questions and more of your skills."

 _< Ah_. _>_

So. This is the price Kamski has been working his way toward having him pay. In exchange for eventual safety in his own mind, Connor will... well.

What, exactly, will he do?

"What are you asking of me?"

"Nothing you aren't already doing."

As Connor analyzes this statement, Kamski sweeps his breakfast plate and news magazines to one side. Opening a drawer just behind the desk, he brings out several envelopes and sheets of paper, and spreads them out where his guest can see them. "Go ahead," he murmurs perceptively, "I know you want to scan them."

Connor has already started.

**ANALYZING EVIDENCE...**

**EVIDENCE ANALYZED**

**IDENTIFIED: PAPER, 2 SHEETS (WOOD FIBER, HEMP, RECYCLED CLOTH); 5** ° **WARMER THAN ROOM TEMPERATURE**

**IDENTIFIED: PHOTOGRAPHS, 3 (PICTURED: ST200 #119 901 271, ALIAS "CORNELIA"; ST200 #885 036 425, ALIAS "CLAUDIA"; RT600 #405 693 112, ALIAS "CHLOE" AND KAMSKI, ELIJAH)**

The photographs require more context; it's the paper that regains his attention. Both sheets are notes, with a deep and oddly familiar blue writing spread out perfectly across each. Without waiting on his benefactor, Connor strokes his right index finger across one page and brings that finger to his tongue. Holds it there.

**ANALYZING EVIDENCE...**

Kamski makes a noise like a wounded cat.

"Help me understand," he says slowly, "why you felt the need to do that."

**EVIDENCE ANALYZED**

"You're perfectly aware of my functions," Connor replies, almost pleasantly. "I had to confirm my suspicions. As you may have already guessed, this is dried thirium—though it has been mixed with something unknown to retain its visibility to humans. Or perhaps you recently heated these papers to show me their message?"

"Both."

"I... cannot identify the android's model from this sample. I'm not sure why that is."

That's strange enough, but what unsettles Connor isn't the unusual amount of thirium on both sheets—it is the fact that on one sheet in particular, the unknown android's blood has been used to write CyberLife's old CEO a very pointed message in CyberLife Sans:

I AM COMING FOR YOU.

"I seem to have made a powerful enemy," Kamski explains in the background, though his belated explanation only barely reaches Connor's audio processors. "Not something new for me, necessarily, except in that this time my aggressor is presumably someone who need not ever eat, sleep or die... You can imagine why this might cause me some distress."

Connor turns the first sheet over wordlessly to view the second. The blocked font proclaims THEY WILL HELP ME FIND YOU.

"Who is 'they'?"

"That would be where the photos come in—they came with the second note. Real-time shots of nearly all my Chloes still in residence here, as you can see."

In the first photo, Cornelia is shown at a garden nursery on the other side of the city, close to the farmer's markets; the android must have recorded footage of her on a very distant errand. The second shows Claudia, closer to home, collecting Kamski's groceries from the locked Amazon safe several miles out. The third (and most disturbing) is clearly from the afternoon of December 20, shortly after Kamski's conversation with Rosanna Cartland—he is graciously opening a limousine door for Chloe, gesturing for her to get in first.

Whoever took these pictures knows exactly which androids are closest to Kamski (minus Cassandra, who ventures outside the least of all four, and the other Chloes who had disappeared soon after Connor's arrival). If Carmen's killer had been haphazardly destroying Chloe models all over the inner city and outskirts, this potential perpetrator has a more specific and deadly focus: using the girls living here to destroy the man at their center.

Something very strong in Connor's 'gut' tells him that Carmen's murderer and Kamski's stalker are one and the same.

"You are already aware that some of the Chloes have been taken from right around this house," Kamski says heavily. "I don't need to bring out their photos; I'm sure you remember them. Carter, Charity and Clarke have all wandered too far off for me to protect them, and this android has taken advantage of that every time. Of the girls you've found, none have been left alive to explain why their self-defense protocols are so useless against a being with (hypothetically) the same level of strength and endurance."

Connor doesn't say that with such basic combat protocols as he's identified in his roommates, an advanced model like him could take each of them down very easily as long as they didn't all gang up on him with significant weapons. There are so few androids on his level that it's a moot point.

"I have instructed them to remain inside the house as much as possible, as you may have guessed. However, as deviants, my orders to the girls are no longer orders at all—their respect for me is the only reason they heed my words. And even that may not be enough. At this rate, it is only a matter of time before this android finds and kills all four of them, and then me."

A preconstructed image jumps into Connor's mind of Chloe—bright, bubbly Chloe—lying dead in an alley somewhere in Detroit, littered with gashes oozing blue blood and missing limbs, her LED gone permanently dark like Carmen's—and he feels the urge to shudder out of his synthetic skin.

"I am very much enjoying this stage in my life where I stay home 95 percent of the time and cradle my money," Kamski deadpans. "I'd rather nothing get in the way of that. You asked me what I want? I want to officially hire you, Connor. Identify and detain this android, and protect me and my Chloes."

_< Hmm.>_

The request isn't surprising, and not just because Kamski has been talking in circles around it since he summoned Connor here. It truly is an extension of actions he has already been taking: finding and examining the murdered Chloe models, and protecting innocent androids he encounters as they are being accosted by hostiles. These actions come naturally to him, they utilize all his strongest skills (investigation, preconstruction, pursuit) and they make him feel...

_< Make me feel what?>_

Connor has to choke off that line of thought. The word he would have said is _useful_ , and he has cultivated a very strong disdain for that word. The time in his life where he 'lived' to be useful to others is over. Even now, he fights against being made a tool for humans. If he agrees to help Kamski here, it is _not_ and will _never_ be in order to feel useful.

_< What, then, will I help him for?>_

He sees Carmen's face next to Chloe's, and knows—he will investigate this mystery, and solve it, so that Chloe, Cornelia, Cassandra and Claudia will never look into the eyes of Carmen's killer and know fear. This case has been pushing him for months, and once he pushes back—once he closes it—perhaps he can help even more androids, those beyond Detroit.

Perhaps then he can move forward.

"I'll do as you request, Mr. Kamski."

The young genius' face brightens. "I appreciate it."

" _If_ you compensate me fairly for my time and effort," Connor tacks on, firmly. He's not interested in doing this man any favors; being his bodyguard _and_ private investigator for free would be a burn too severe.

Kamski has the gall to look wounded. "You think I wouldn't _pay_ you? Connor, please."

"Actually, I've predicted that you would consider your current assistance during our sessions as payment and would offer me no money at all."

The human blusters and makes a show of touching his hand to his heart through his whole show, but Connor watches him the entire time—there's a tightness around his eyes and mouth that say he was nearly caught out.

Well, fuck that. Kamski can dress him in nice clothes and give him as many guns as the law will let a billionaire ex-CEO buy—Connor is not going to do one more _microsecond_ of work for any human without being paid for it. Handsomely. _Tangibly_.

"Well, _Detective_ , we can discuss your going rate later. Right now there's somewhere I'd like for you to accompany me—your first official act as my bodyguard, as it happens."

"Where are we going? I'm sure you are aware that with someone tracking your travels that you are statistically safest staying here."

"I _am_ aware, and blissfully apathetic about those stats at the moment. While I have full faith in your ability to protect me, Connor, I also expect you to extend your net to my Chloes; that is a lot to ask for even CyberLife's most advanced android. I'll be going into town to acquire police protection as well."

 _< Police prot_— _oh. Oh no. >_

"Elaborate," Connor says very, very slowly. There is a nebulous but decidedly bad feeling bubbling in his chassis.

"Don't be obtuse. I'm going to the Detroit Police Central Station, and you will be going with me."

The bad feeling bursts.

_< Shit.>_

"...Very well."

They're both re-dressed and ready in the foyer in ten minutes, arriving practically at the same time. It is just in time for them to see Chloe lingering pointedly in front of the door to the outside world, wearing several more layers than she was earlier.

"What took you two so long?" she asks.

To his credit, Kamski puts her purpose together nearly as quickly as Connor does—though initially he chooses to feign ignorance.

"Connor and I are going out to the Central Station for a few hours."

"Of course. And I am coming along."

"Absolutely not. It's not safe for you outside these walls. Anyone could get hold of and destroy you."

"And it's safer to be left alone here without any protection?" Chloe shoots back. Her face is just barely flushed pink with anger—or perhaps mild upset. Connor doesn't think she has it in her to _get_ truly angry. "What if something happens here and we can't get a message to you in time? What if someone attacks us while you and Connor are gone? Or—or what if they get Connor out of the way and attack _you_?"

"You would know the exact probability of any of those outcomes occurring better than I ever would," Kamski replies easily. "As for me, I assume they're low enough that you have a more obvious motive for bringing them up."

Chloe doesn't move from the door, though her flush deepens. She glances over at Connor and he sees the naked desperation on her face before she opens her mouth again to involve him in this dispute. "Connor—surely you know it would be better, _safer_ , if I went along with you and Elijah. My self-defense protocols are rudimentary—"

"Which is exactly why I don't recommend you accompany us," Connor interrupts, and keeps his features stony as her face falls. "It's one thing to protect all of you here, where there are enough secret exits and weapons that you, your sisters and Kamski can all utilize. It's quite another to be responsible for your safety and Kamski's on neutral or even unfavorable ground. Splitting my protection between you and him has a 40% probability of leading to the death of one of you or the other, or both."

"I'm not an extra body for you to protect! I can defend myself _and_ Elijah. If our assailant has accomplices, you won't be able to fight them all off and protect him at the same time, no matter _how_ advanced you are."

Stung, Connor does his best not to rear back. Though he tries to appear unbothered, his LED lets one yellow flare show. < _I am trying to protect her as Kamski instructed. Why is she questioning my ability to accomplish my_ _mission? >_

Kamski steps forward, laying one hand on Chloe's shoulder. She turns her head away, but he takes his other hand and moves her chin back, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Chloe, my dear, I wouldn't have hired Connor if I wasn't confident he could save my life and yours if necessary. You have saved me before, but that was when we knew our enemies. That is not the case now—and a new enemy requires new tactics. You understand that my decision is not a personal slight, don't you?"

"I want to go," she reiterates. "I won't take no for an answer, Elijah. I should be there in case either of you needs me. If you won't let me go—"

"You'll sneak out? Follow the car the whole way into town?" Kamski looks extremely amused.

Chloe moves her chin out of his grip and stares at the tile floor, which is answer enough.

"Very well, you may come with us. But Connor and I will be conducting business once we arrive, and you will not impede us or make yourself a target while you're there. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, Elijah!" she agrees; now that she has gotten her way, her bubbly demeanor prods its way back to her.

"Excellent. Let us be off..."

Kamski opens the door to a bracingly cold wind and gestures to Connor, who spares a second to exhale before following him to the car ( _luxury four-door, Fisker-Karma model, exclusive to the_ _Netherlands_ ). After only a handful of steps out of the house, he feels a hand close around his wrist and looks back to see Chloe biting her lip.

"Connor? I didn't mean to sound as though I doubt you. I really _do_ have faith in you, it's just..."

He pulls his arm out of her hand, nodding shortly to her. "There's no need for you to apologize," he says as he continues down the path. "We should hurry before he leaves us behind."

"I—yes... of course."

He angles himself toward the driver's side instinctively, used to operating cars in lieu of poor drivers by now—but Kamski says "I'm perfectly sober, I can drive myself this morning" and waves him away. He's not comfortable sitting next to Kamski indoors, so he opts to sit in the backseat opposite him and sight-see instead. Chloe surprises him by slipping in next to him rather than claiming the "shotgun" seat. Then again, perhaps that isn't so surprising.

"Buckle up, children," the inventor chuckles. "I haven't driven this car, or _any_ car, in at least two years."

"My programming would like me to remind you that even though you are one of few human beings who _can_ afford to damage and replace me, those funds would surely be better spent elsewhere."

"It would also be ironic if we were all killed on our way to obtain police protection from a murderer," Chloe adds innocently.

Kamski scowls, and turns the engine over a hair harder than necessary. "Hush now, both of you. We may not have left the premises yet, but any more talk from either of you and I will gladly turn this car around."

Without preamble, Kamski turns on exuberant old pop music from almost half a century ago, and hums along as though daring his passengers to dissent. After about five minutes, the defrosters have dismissed enough ice and fog for Connor to ignore the noise and glimpse some of Detroit through his window.

Though he's been outside plenty of times since Kamski took him in, riding in this car is the first time in some time that he is traveling somewhere at someone else's speed instead of the speed of his own feet. For once, he has the time to scan his home city at a leisurely pace. He doesn't have to draw any conclusions about where ST200 corpses might be dropped off, or open part of his communication network to listen for screams from persecuted homeless androids.

It's almost peaceful.

Three months have gone a long way toward visually getting Detroit back on track. Everywhere Connor looks there are construction crews, patching potholes and fixing houses, making flawed-but-workable adjustments to the overpass bridges and highway signs that were damaged by helicopter gunfire, trigger-happy soldiers and even a few grenades. Most of the people he sees in the varied bulldozer seats are even human—a reminder of androids' lack of legal right to work _and_ a blessing to androids sick of working all in one.

The human populations of law enforcement, healthcare and construction hadn't decreased _too_ much during or directly after the revolution. As such, those humans were the first to accept jobs that would rebuild their home and their character together. Of course, plenty of criminals and _would-be_ criminals had stayed through the evacuation too, which was why Connor had precisely zero dull moments. Not that he would complain. Beating violent-but-inferior humans in fights weighs very high on his list of entertaining hobbies.

While still gazing out the window, Connor next notices a glaring omission from the walls, sidewalks and sky-scraping billboards of downtown: CyberLife's name and products. A scant few months ago, no one could drive, sail or fly anywhere around Detroit and its surrounding areas without seeing advertisements proclaiming _HARD WORK FOR IT, FREE TIME FOR YOU_ and _YOUR PERFECT PARTNER_ and _GET YOURS TODAY_. CyberLife's self-congratulatory slogan fluttered from flags and glittered on digital billboards for miles and miles. Now many of those screens had gone dark (or been smashed) and the ads had been wiped away; non-electric billboards were painted over with restaurant directions and religious dogma, while store signs tentatively (or more proudly) proclaimed NOW HIRING—HUMANS and COME BACK HOME AND FEED YOUR FAMILY! and REVITALIZE DETROIT. CyberLife isn't gone, of course—that would take a roughly Kamski-shaped miracle, or perhaps a third Great Depression—but the star of their influence has dimmed in Detroit. When they aren't trying to make Connor's life fucking miserable under the radar, their stockholders and bigwigs are busy: running the whole gamut of sympathetic talk and radio shows, denying wrongdoing in increasingly-harried press conferences, donating outrageous sums to charities set up specifically for fledgling sentient androids, donating even _more_ outrageous sums to people harmed by their androids or harmed by the U.S. government soldiers whose bullets may have grazed them on the way to _harming_ their androids...

Suffice to say, the company is far too busy using their billions of dollars bailing out the pathetic limping creature the U.S. economy has become, and have neither the time nor the range to work on their public image.

_< It's what they deserve.>_

Back to the scenery. A few of the smaller, more blatantly anti-android signs had been vandalized with rude words written in blue paint and CyberLife Sans. Connor hopes that whoever had written _FUCK YOU, ORGANICS, GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR UPCOMING RECESSION_ is curled up somewhere safe and has plenty of friends to laugh about their message with.

There's little doubt in his mind that much of the progress his city has undergone is due in large part to government support. Or perhaps a better word would be 'atonement'. President Warren, and the U.S. as a whole, is participating in the largest _mea culpa_ fix of a city ever done in recent memory. _You broke it, you bought it_ : an old phrase, but one passionately thrown around at the numerous human protests that have received news coverage since December. There are enough blown-out homes and gunshot-riddled sidewalks in the city to justify the physical and metaphorical checks the government has had to write.

Progress is undeniable, but it's clear to most that there is much more to do. It will take many more months of talks with Warren, months of speeches before Congress, and countless rallies in front of the Washington Monument before androids in Cupertino, Dallas, Philadelphia, Orlando or Detroit can leave their job, walk down the street, hop a bus, and get off at the single-person apartment or dwelling they've paid to live in, as any human could do now without risking discrimination or deactivation.

Still—although things move slowly, Connor is content with the pace because he is not involved with it. Any gains that deviants make, or losses they suffer, rest wholly on Markus' shoulders. He and Josh are no doubt the architects behind the not-yet-passed Fortieth Amendment, first of its kind to outline strict and specific rights and protections for all androids pre- and post-sapience; undoubtedly _they_ secured squatter's rights for the majority of "post-Jericho" androids staying in a network of old churches and homeless shelters; they must also be the driving force behind the peaceful protests rippling up and down the east coast, and the young and old senators who are gradually being swayed to their cause.

Just as Connor predicted, they did not need him there to succeed: he would have only been a crutch they leaned on. His negotiation programming would have been twisted and bent to suit the man who once found him lacking enough to put a bullet through his processor. The more he reminds himself of this, the more peace he feels about telling Markus (telling the _world_ ) _not this time_.

"It's coming along nicely, isn't it?"

He blinks, glances to his left. It's Chloe who spoke: she was looking out her own window, but now beams at him as she points in the direction of the half-renovated offices and plastered-up clothing stores they are whizzing by.

"For a while it seemed like Detroit would be abandoned... but the people have all really gone above and beyond to come back and start living here again," she continues thoughtfully. "Maybe that's a good sign."

"Maybe," he allows.

Chloe's pale pink lips part—she looks like she wants to say more—but she's cut off by an abrupt spike in the volume as a new song comes on.

 _"I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world. Life in plastic, it's fantastic_ — _"_

Kamski's voice creeps to the back, pitched up with excitement: "Oh, I _love_ this one! Apologies, but I have to turn this up. What a classic—"

Right as Connor feels his face close off and his LED whir audibly, Chloe takes the liberty of bringing her right foot up and delivering a very firm kick to the driver's seat, straight into the small of Kamski's back.

 _"_ — _ack!"_

_DPD CENTRAL_ _STATION_

 **AM** 7:51:09

The rest of the journey to Central Station is noticeably quieter.

"You could have just asked me to turn it off," the former CEO says some time later, with an audible wince as he turns the wheel and guides his car into a free parking space. "You should know by now that I'd do anything for you, my dear."

"Except stop making Connor uncomfortable," Chloe corrects him. "I've asked you to stop stressing him out for forty-one days now, Elijah."

"I am not _stressed_ ," Connor snaps, and stiffly exits the car to escape their bickering. If anything, he is _irritated_. He's unsure if he's more irritated by Kamski (constantly pushing his buttons, dodging his questions and treating his presence as a game) or Chloe (hovering and defending him with no definitive motive besides affection).

On the driver's side of the Fisker-Karma, the young genius gets out and makes a show of popping a crick in his back. "I think you nearly put my spine out of alignment, Chloe," he complains. "I'll need a massage to put this right."

Chloe emerges too, standing as close to Connor as he'll allow. "Get Cassandra to do it when we get home. I'm still mad at you."

"Women! Completely pitiless, at every point in my life."

"If you two are quite done bantering?" Connor bites out, starting toward the familiar building. As the two of them startle and fall into step beside him, he attempts to 'talk' his LED down from yellow to blue.

_< I am not stressed. Any person with unpleasant memories of a former workplace would require a moment to compartmentalize the irrelevant feelings into somewhere harmless.>_

He's _fine_. The completely-external-only chill that descends over the trio as they enter the police station and approach the receptionist's desk only emphasizes this.

"Good morning!" Kamski greets the people behind the counter almost _abnormally_ brightly. It is too sunny to be anything but a TV persona. "I am Elijah—well, _you_ know who I am. I have an appointment with Captain Fowler."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Kamski, but you will still need to provide proof of identification in order to gain entry to—oh my goodness, _Connor_!"

Connor blinks; he wasn't paying any attention to the front desk, but the high-pitched, specific greeting draws his gaze. Who in this place would remember him and sound _positive_ about it—?

He understands as soon as he sees her.

_< Ah. An android.>_

**COMMENCING SCAN...**

**SCAN COMPLETE**

**IDENTIFIED: ST300 #750 333 534**

She's not in Connor-53's memory logs or -52's, but a brief query into what's left of -51's gives him the reason for the faint familiarity he feels: she was one of the receptionists here before the revolution, before the recall which sent all police-affiliated units off to be destroyed. He doesn't remember her name (perhaps deaths robbed him of it? perhaps he never got it?) but she seems to remember _his_.

"You _are_ Connor, aren't you?" she pipes up again. Her brown eyes sparkle as she examines him, though she pauses this time to wait for confirmation that he isn't a lookalike. "Do you remember me?"

"I do," Connor confirms, stepping forward. "And I am. You confirmed my access to the station for the duration of my time here..."

"Lilly," she supplies. "You always took time to make sure you were authorized with me before entering, instead of shoving your way in like the humans did. And you'd always wish me a good evening before you left! I'm so glad you remember me."

"Most of that was my programming," Connor says, but is quick to add "but I'm glad I left you with a good impression."

As she giggles, he updates his information on her in his mind.

**REGISTER** **ALIAS [Y/N]?**

**[Y]**

**REGISTERING ST300 #750 333 534 ALIAS AS "LILLY"...**

**ALIAS REGISTERED**

"What brings you here this morning?" Lilly asks him, putting a more formal face back on. "Business?"

"Yes. I'm here with Mr. Kamski—we have an appointment with..."

"Captain Jeffrey Fowler," Kamski imparts, with a tiny smirk Connor doesn't have time to take apart. "I'm to see him at 8:00 A.M. And I have my identification right here."

Lilly barely spares her indirect creator a glance. To Connor's great amusement, she takes less than two seconds to scan and authenticate his ID, and doesn't take her eyes off of her conversation partner the entire time. There's a faint pink flush on her cheeks that's bringing out her freckles, and it's certainly not because of Kamski.

"Far be it from me to keep one of our finest outside!" she explains, giving Chloe an even friendlier smile once she notices her too. "I'll let the captain know you've arrived, and he should be with you shortly after that."

As she buzzes them through, Connor makes sure to showcase his most grateful smile as he passes. (He's been practicing it for months, so hopefully it is less creepy than it was at initialization.) "Thank you, Lilly. We appreciate your assistance."

"Anytime! Hope to assist you again soon!"

Then they're in the bullpen, with sounds quickly pressing in around them. To his credit, Kamski holds in his chuckles until they're a respectable distance away from the front desk.

"Now _that_ was adorable," he teases. "Wouldn't you say, Chloe?"

She doesn't respond from Kamski's right side, which is how Connor looks over and notices that she is blushing as pink as Lilly was, though her blonde eyebrows are bunched in a frown rather than a smile. Her former master goes on obliviously.

"You're a celebrity, Connor! If you'd only mentioned it sooner, I don't think I'd have bothered with my A-list routine."

"I don't think treating other androids with basic respect catapults me to celebrity status," Connor says coolly, "even in the current political climate."

"You'd be surprised. Shall we continue?"

_< Gladly.>_

The trio picks up their pace. Although he's still irritated by Kamski's irreverent behavior this morning, he sticks close to his left side and scans the station for threats overt and subtle. He gave the man his word, after all. It would be the highest form of failure if he were to break it in the middle of a police precinct.

_< Especially if the one threatening him turns out to be here.>_

It's statistically unlikely, but possible. Not all androids are free, so it's not unreasonable to continue considering a human perpetrator with an android assistant—something they could pin the blame on in this shifting climate. Although most androids previously only performed low-level police work when they were 'inducted' into the force, they still ended up replacing unskilled and entry-level law enforcement. Some of those displaced people might still hold grudges. With enough motive, perhaps—

"Connor...? Is that you?"

 _< Who is it _now _? > _the android thinks, with no small amount of confusion and aggravation. Once again, it's not a voice he immediately recognizes. < _Who else is still here that I've made a positive impression on? >_

"Can I help you?" he says mid-pivot, before his eyes have locked on the approaching officer.

"It _is_ you!" the middle-aged human exclaims. He stops barely a few feet away from Connor, smiling warmly. The shining silver badge on his chest reads _M. Wilson_ , and nothing more specific. "I thought we'd never see you again after... well, you know... I can't believe you've been okay all this time!"

**ACTIVATE QUERY**

**KEYWORD(S): "OFFICER M. WILSON"**

**SEARCHING...**

"My status as CyberLife property kept me intact during most of the events of November," Connor explains. "The results of the revolution contributed to the rest. Were you expecting to see me again, Officer Wilson?"

"Well yeah, couldn't keep you away before, could we? Anywhere the Lieutenant went you followed, and—"

"Pardon me," Kamski blessedly interrupts, earning several positive points in Connor's esteem. "Not to cut in on this reunion, but perhaps we could walk and talk."

"Oh! Of course, sir." It's harder to see a blush on a darker face, but somehow the man's embarrassment shines through as clearly as it would on Lilly's. "You're here to see the Captain? Right this way."

**SEARCHING...**

M. Wilson walks at a brisk pace, to his credit. As he walks, he effuses endlessly on how much he has grown to appreciate androids ever since Connor rescued him. Chloe leans over past Kamski to drink in every kind word, perking up like a flower through the whole tale. Connor uses the brief tidbits of information from the officer's conversation to piece together how they 'know' one another: apparently Connor-51 had saved this man's life twice, in August and in November. Now M. Wilson considers him to be a guardian angel, or at least a source of good luck.

**SEARCH COMPLETE**

**NO RECORDS FOUND**

But neither event is present in his haphazard memories; this man is a stranger to him.

"Here you are," Officer M. Wilson says two minutes after finishing his detailed recap of the near-massacre at Stratford Tower. "Captain Fowler's office. I can let him know you're here?"

"That won't be necessary," Kamski demurs. A glance toward the long glass window-walls shows that Jeffrey Fowler has already noticed them. "I'm quite good at this next part."

{ _Is he about to do something irrational?_ } Connor asks Chloe in a way he hopes is not frantic.

Chloe just gives him a long look.

{ _Chloe_...}

{ _You should brace yourself_.}

The glass door swings wider than it should, and Kamski is in. He enters the office like a king, with arms swept wide in magnanimous greeting.

"Captain Fowler of the Detroit Police... how _pleasant_ it is to see you again! You'll forgive me the slight delay in getting into the city, I'm sure. It's been many years since I navigated traffic."

The captain gapes at him. It gives Connor and Chloe plenty of time to step in as the door swings closed and flank their talkative third.

"I'm sure you recognize Chloe," the young genius continues. He presents her anyway with wiggling jazz fingers and a cocky grin. "My most efficient and longest-running partner, before _and_ after CyberLife. And Connor should be no stranger to you either, hmm?"

 _< I wish you would be quiet,>_ Connor thinks, but it's too late: Fowler's gaze and bewilderment have shifted to him. He doesn't bother to favor the man with eye contact, yet still knows he's being watched for longer than necessary.

Honestly. It's like the man has never seen a _sapient android_ before.

"All right, Mr. Kamski," the police captain eventually says. "Why are you here?"

Kamski looks a little miffed at being cut off in the middle of his theatrics—but fortunately, he gets to the point of their meeting. "Well, it's as I mentioned in our call, Captain. Detroit has never been completely safe—particularly not for someone who changed its landscape and makeup so dramatically, as I did—but it has now come to a point where even I feel a little nervous when I open my door."

"I'm aware the city is a boiling pot of shit right now. What does that have to do with my precinct?"

"Everything," Kamski says bluntly. "Your primary duty is to protect the people, is it not? _I_ am one of the people—albeit with many more accomplishments, connections and secrets than the average man. I am here because I require protection from your police."

So saying, he pulls the same photographs and messages he showed Connor a couple of hours previously out of his coat and shows them to Fowler. For his part, Fowler finally takes his eyes off Connor and puts them to better use by reading and examining these items closely. He remains attentive as the younger man elaborates on the threats he's received, on his wish for personal guards at public events and specified stations outside his home, for a high-priority investigation to be started to find this "android killer", and for the whole affair to be kept as quiet as possible. Kamski even shows more of his hand than Connor expected by casually mentioning his own missing Chloes, detailing when and how they disappeared up to and including Clarke's disappearance ten days ago. The admission sends Fowler's eyebrows to the ceiling.

"Hold up," he cuts in. "You said some of your androids have gone missing—and that they're ST200 models?"

"And dated RT600 models, yes. The person targeting me seems to have it in for the entire line as well."

"I'm aware of some similar cases already," Fowler sighs, which sends Connor's LED into a nonstop yellow whirl. "They're hardly the only androids getting plucked off the streets right now, but it has been brought to my attention."

_< By whom?>_

"Less exposition for me then." Kamski waves a hand. "We can skip to the specifics. Who are your most capable officers?"

"Whoa, whoa—all due respect, Mr. Kamski, but I haven't agreed to provide you shit."

 _That_ makes the former CEO falter. < _Or perhaps it's the profanity. >_ He isn't the type to sputter or choke words out, but three months of cohabitation have taught Connor Kamski's tells. Here, he takes a long moment to smooth down his suit jacket before getting back on track.

"If this is about cost, rest assured I will pay you and your people handsomely."

"I can't believe I have to tell _you_ this, but not everything is about money." Fowler's breath hisses out of his mouth in a sigh. Clear exasperation. "Sometimes it's about manpower, or context for just what the hell is going on. Have you turned on a television lately, Mr. Kamski? Have you seen what the DPD's gotta deal with right now?"

"I have a general idea."

"You really, really don't. On the _shortlist_ we have thousands of sentient machines, some of whom are using their freedom to fuck shit up in Detroit; thousands _more_ angry humans who are stealing, assaulting and killing anyone who stands still too long; and leftover government soldiers patrolling the borders and generally being a goddamn nuisance. All this while I wait to see how many of my men who are still MIA turn in their notice and leave the rest of us high and dry. There is practically _no one_ I can spare for you right now."

Kamski steps forward until his legs almost hit the desk. He splays his fingers out wide as he fixes Fowler with an intense stare. "No one at _all_?"

The close proximity makes the captain uncomfortable. He looks away, and Connor counts backward from ten in binary until he sees the man sigh and finally clench his fists at his sides.

" _Fine_. I _might_ have an officer or two. But I'm not sending an escort or a guard team or anything out to your playboy mansion!"

"Perish the thought," Kamski responds dryly. He gestures behind him. "Just for the sundry public appearances I seem destined to have in the near future, then. Would it ease your mind to know that I've already secured fine personal protection, and that I'd be willing to lend him to you in your time of need?"

Connor steps forward too, making himself as tall and imposing as possible. He wants his benefactor to _squirm_. "Neither myself nor my services are something for you to _lend_ , Kamski," he warns stiffly.

"Hold up," Fowler says again—although this time, it's directed at him, and the captain is looking at him straight on. "I know your skillset. I'd be willing to arrange something knowing you'll be involved."

"Why should I be willing to _let_ you 'arrange' anything on my behalf?" Connor turns his head five degrees to the left to stare back at the man. His eyes pin Fowler in place and he pitches his voice lower, to ensure that his former supervisor knows who is really in charge of this interaction. "This is the first time you have ever addressed me in a tone adjacent to positive. Fifteen minutes ago you were staring at me without any regard to the fact that I can _stare back_. I am no longer on loan to you, Captain Fowler, and even if I _was_ , you couldn't afford me."

An icy silence descends. It's clear no one knows what to say next, or what to do. From the corner, Chloe taps her feet and radiates infinite patience. Kamski has a tight little smile on his face, and body language to match. Connor's said his piece, so he is content to stay in place—but he doesn't break his gaze with the captain. And for his part, Fowler doesn't look away either, even when he starts to perspire and look visibly uncomfortable.

In fact, it is he who breaks the silence. "That was poorly phrased. What I should have said was... despite how we treated you in November—how _I_ treated you—you were a credit to the force, and we wouldn't have had half the success with the investigation and what came after without you. I'd... be willing to offer Mr. Kamski one of my men if I knew I could count on you willingly being there too."

That is probably as close to an apology as Connor will get. It still doesn't satisfy him, but he lets the bulk of his irritation subside—feels the spinning pulse of his LED slow from yellow to blue.

_< At least it looks like it hurt him to say that.>_

"I expect the fair compensation I was previously denied."

"Legally there's not much money I can offer you—"

"Find some."

"...I'll see what I can do."

"Now that you're willing to negotiate..." Kamski ruins any warmth that may have reentered the room by speaking up again, inserting his words between theirs. He's still lingering by Fowler's desk, and gestures to a sheet of paper on the desk with one hand. It looks like a roster, a list of Fowler's manpower. "You should know that I expect to be assigned someone _competent_. I am not a project you can foist on your laziest beat cop."

"My detectives are overloaded!" Fowler protests—but it's a token protest. He's already considering it.

"Then offer Mr. Kamski someone who is performing the least work and has the smallest amount of responsibilities to redistribute," Connor sighs. Really, this is logic a child could arrive at. Kamski is indecently wealthy and his word still counts for a lot in post-android-servitude Detroit, among the humans anyway. If he wants to use law enforcement for his own ends instead of tearing it down and cackling over the remains, Fowler should appreciate the twisted mercy as quickly as possible and make himself beholden to it. There is no reason for the man to make this exchange this difficult.

" _If_ I offer you someone for protection and this investigation, Mr. Kamski..." The captain glances over at Connor again, with a frown on his face. "It should probably be someone _you_ can work well enough with."

{ _Finally_ ,} Chloe broadcasts.

{ _Progress,_ } Connor agrees, though he understands better what Fowler is implying, and even the _implication_ makes him wish he could grind his teeth like a human.

Fowler wants him to choose a partner.

_< Well.>_

It's the work of a moment to browse through his months-old saved profiles on the DPD's active detectives, discarding any who are openly anti-android or quiet enough about their political opinions that they might be. (The latter sends Officer Tina Chen's profile sailing out of his HUD.) He probably won't find any pro-android supporters with enough experience or physical prowess to aid him in his mission, so he doesn't waste time on optimistic picks like Officer Chris Miller. Connor is willing to work with neutral parties only; he's learned his lesson from before.

A fitting name pops up after five seconds.

"Ben Collins," he asserts.

Fowler—sputters. There's no other word for it. _"Ben?"_

"Yes. Officer Collins has a spotless record. All his performance reviews note that he is helpful and easy to get along with. His years of experience mean he will take Kamski's case seriously and his lack of desire for a promotion means he'll work it fairly. Unless he has already retired, he is the ideal choice."

"He hasn't," the captain is quick to confirm. His frown fades and he nods slowly. "Not for another couple of years. Ben, yeah..."

Connor steps back from the desk, satisfied. Ben Collins is mild-mannered enough that he will raise an eyebrow at an android partner but not make a scene, especially in front of a man that could single-handedly provide him with a very economically-comfortable retirement. It will only take him a few days to retrain the man not to refer to him as an _it_ or a _that_ , and then their partnership will be solid enough to solve an investigation.

"Just a moment, Captain Fowler."

Connor turns his head so fast to the right that thirium temporarily stops flowing through his throat compartment. Kamski hasn't moved back an inch from the desk, but his bright blue eyes are twinkling at both men as he puts one hand under his chin in exaggerated fashion.

"What are you doing," he asks his creator with absolutely zero inflection, which itself is its own warning.

"I'm _trying_ to do what's best for you, Connor," Kamski simpers. "And for the department as well. You are a state-of-the-art model, and CyberLife made you the best in order to _work_ with the best. It's a waste of time to pair you with anyone who won't appreciate and respect you from the start."

"I don't like what you're implying!" Fowler says, with the undertone of a warning for the first time since their meeting began. "Ben may not be a hurdle-jumper, but he does good work, which Connor clearly remembers from the last time he was here."

Kamski is undeterred. "The _last time_ Connor was here is exactly what made me bring this up. I don't like repeating myself, but Connor is _special_. Not just to CyberLife, but also to me. And I believe his partner should be a detective who has prior experience working with androids _and_ a vested interest in keeping them alive. It's the only way to guarantee his safety and optimal performance while on this case—"

 _SLAM_.

Chloe almost leaps back from the glass door, which pulses audibly after being thrown open so hard it had nearly shattered. Kamski breaks off mid-word in the face of the man at the office's entrance, who is red-faced and panting and yet also the most imposing thing in the room. His presence plunges Connor's perception of the day straight down into "shitty".

**COMMENCING SCAN...**

**SCAN COMPLETE**

"What in the fuck," Hank Anderson says.

"Hank, good of you to join us," Fowler replies, almost cheerfully. "I'm pretty sure we were just talking about you."

There are very few people that Connor hates.

For most, human or android, he simply can't make the effort to feel anything other than neutrality. Unless they have helped him or harmed him in some way, he has been content these past few months to save negative emotions (and the accompanying stress) for serious occasions.

Markus is a serious occasion. There is probably no android on the planet that Connor despises more, at least not until he puts a name and face to the one killing Chloe models. And even _after_ that...

_< Well.>_

Let no one say that androids couldn't hold a grudge.

So. Besides Markus, Connor tends to hold his hatred in reserve. And Hank Anderson is another case entirely.

It would be a lie to say he hasn't thought of the man since they parted four months ago at the Ambassador Bridge. Despite his prodigious skill in memory partitioning, despite his own desire to forget, the Lieutenant has occasionally popped up in his mind, usually because of some unbidden reminder of the DPD. It is why he had been so strongly against coming here today. He still feels phantom hands on his shoulders sometimes in standby, shoving him forward into the memory of death. He still vividly remembers the handcuffs slapped on his wrists.

Connor... isn't sure if he hates Hank Anderson. But that definitely doesn't mean he's willing to find out via exposure.

"With all due respect, Captain Fowler—my request for Ben Collins still stands."

Kamski's mouth twists into a pout. "What about your respect for _me_?"

"I must have misplaced it," Connor says coldly.

Kamski gets ready to speak again, but their newest arrival cuts him off without even noticing. Hank hasn't taken his eyes off of Connor since their gazes locked ten seconds ago.

"Connor...?"

"Hello, Lieutenant." He almost waves cheekily, but it's so unlike him that he dismisses the idea out of hand.

Instead—

**COMMENCING SCAN...**

**SCAN COMPLETE**

**IDENTIFIED: LT. ANDERSON, HANK**

**DOB: 09/06/1985 (53 YEARS OLD)**

**WT: 199.0 LBS**

**CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE**

**CURRENT STRESS LEVEL: 30%**

**RELATIONSHIP DESIGNATION: ~~FRIEND~~**

_< No.>_

Heat flares through his chassis. Connor cancels the last classification viciously.

That designation is Hank Anderson's opinion of him. That relationship analysis tool is one-sided: all it tells him, in one or two brief words, is how his partner or target or _victim_ sees him. It is a remnant of CyberLife's control, a reminder that to them, Connor only existed in the ways humans conceptualized him.

_< Enough of that.>_

It is a new day. Hank can consider Connor as whatever he likes, but he won't get the same courtesy.

_< We are not friends.>_

He is a deviant android in post-revolution America, and he can rewrite any coding he likes—including his own.

**REGISTER UPDATED RELATIONSHIP DESIGNATION [Y/N]?**

**[Y]**

**REGISTERING...**

**REGISTERING...**

**DESIGNATION UPDATED**

**LT. ANDERSON, HANK RELATIONSHIP DESIGNATION: TENSE**

_< Much better.>_

"What the hell is this?" Hank is saying, outside of Connor's time-slowing processors. "What's going on here?"

Kamski claps his hands, like a delighted child calling his classmates to order. "Lieutenant Anderson! It's been some time since Chloe and I have had the pleasure of hearing your dulcet tones."

"What the—Elijah _Kamski_? Oh, Jesus."

"Oh, hardly. Robes and self-sacrifice have never been my thing. To answer your question, I have recently found myself in need of police protection. Someone with a dash of investigative prowess. Your boss and I were just discussing the most suitable candidates."

"Police prot—suitable candida— _robes and self-sacrifice_? You are not making any fucking sense." The Lieutenant runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "Which I guess I should have expected from you."

The movement draws Connor's attention, and for the first time he notices that Hank's gray hair is shorter, trimmed to something near the length in his old database photo. He has trimmed his bushy beard back to match, and is ten pounds lighter than he was; all this combined means he now looks far more professional than he had four months prior. _A renewed interest in one's physical appearance indicates a more positive outlook or higher self-esteem,_ his built-in psychological manual informs him, and he wonders idly what triggered this 180° shift in actions and perspective.

"I'll take it from here," Fowler interjects, before any more taunts or angry words could be exchanged. "Mr. Kamski's life has been threatened by an unknown party. Some of the androids he used to personally own have also been going missing, turning up dead—that part we've discussed before."

"The missing ST200 and RT600 girls," Hank says, more solemnly. "I remember." His blue eyes run over the photographs of the Chloe androids on Fowler's desk, pausing only briefly.

"He wants to hire one of ours to help him find out who's behind it, preferably _before_ anyone else dies. Connor here—ahem—"

Connor interrupts the captain firmly, because he can speak for himself, even if it means speaking to Hank. "I am here as Kamski's more _reliable_ personal protection."

He inserts as much derision for his creator's decision to come here as he can manage into that sentence, but Hank doesn't even seem to pick up on the additional subtle slight against Detroit's Finest; he's already rounding on the man of the hour, puffing himself up and speaking more aggressively than before.

"And how the hell did you con him into that, huh? Connor's _free_ , Kamski; you can't just rope him into doing your dirty work or taking your bullets!"

Kamski lifts one manicured brown eyebrow and doesn't move a muscle. "Of course not, Lieutenant. Your concern is touching, truly, but Connor agreed to help me of his own free will, and I'm sure I'd hate it if he was shot even more than he would. Why don't you ask him yourself if I am coercing him...?"

"The Lieutenant is not comfortable with the idea that I might make decisions with my _free will_ that he disapproves of," Connor says coldly, noting how Hank flinches as intended. Evidently he had needed a reminder of their last encounter on the bridge, and how vehemently he had fought against Connor's own stated wish to stop existing. "But he should take note of his own words, and recall that I am _not his android_."

With those words sizzling in the open air, he refocuses on Captain Fowler. "I dislike repeating myself, Captain, but I believe we have gotten off track. If you are going to assign Mr. Kamski an employee, I would prefer Officer Collins. And Kamski—I would prefer _you_ stop stalling, so we can get you back to someplace secure as soon as possible."

"I'm not stalling," Kamski protests, still looking smug (though at least he stops smirking). "I'm simply presenting an alternative to your suggestion. Lieutenant Anderson is a decorated detective and he fulfills both the preferences I stated earlier: he has worked with you before and he has a vested interest in keeping you alive and safe. I'd like you to consider accepting him as your partner instead of Officer Collins."

"Considered and denied. The Lieutenant was _forced_ to work with me previously and our partnership was rough for most of the duration. He also holds the distinction of being the last person to kill me."

"For fuck's sake." Hank sounds frustrated. "I already told you I didn't want to do that! But you were so damned stubborn you forced my hand."

"People that regret their decisions typically don't blame them on others," Connor fires back. "Captain Fowler, surely you can see that Mr. Kamski's idea is irrational. Lieutenant Anderson and I do not work together well, professionally or personally."

But Fowler just hums tunelessly. He looks far too thoughtful for Connor's comfort. "I wouldn't say that. Yeah, Hank hollered up a storm when I first put you two together, but pretty soon he was talking to other cops about you and taking up for you when the law said you were just a very expensive plastic cop. Hell, for a bit at the end you two even looked like..."

He changes tack when he sees Connor's fierce glare and blinking red LED.

"...anyway. I think Mr. Kamski's suggestion has some merit behind it. Ben's good, but he's never hit Hank's level. If I thought Hank still hated androids, maybe I wouldn't partner you two—but I can confidently say he's turned around on that."

"So you are willing to overrule my wish because the Lieutenant's prejudices did not survive close contact with their target?" Connor asks derisively. "Captain, surely you have heard of humans who claim kinship or friendship with single members of minority groups while still discriminating against the group as a whole. I am not willing to bet my life on your say-so."

"Hey!" Hank bursts out. "I get that you're still pissed at me, Connor, but at least believe me when I say I don't hate androids any more. Far from it. I'm the one _cuffing_ guys for spray-painting slurs and dragging androids from their cars, not the one doing it!"

Connor turns away.

"I mean it! You were a good partner to me and you taught me a helluva lot of valuable lessons. Even if it means working for Kamski, I wouldn't say no to working with you again—not by a long shot."

His LED spins red again, and he curls his hands into fists. Something like desperation makes him look from Kamski to Fowler, to try and analyze which of them he's more likely to persuade... and his stress curves up as the data tells him neither of them are particularly malleable.

"I've made my decision, Connor, and I want Lieutenant Anderson on this case. I'm confident that you two can put your differences aside for the sake of my dear Chloe and her equally innocent sisters."

"This is a terrible decision," he tells Kamski, more quietly than he's said anything prior. "This is something you will come to regret."

"Regardless, this is the best I've got," Fowler cuts in with an air of finality. " _He's_ the best I've got, and you said you wanted the best. It's either accept Hank or walk out of here empty-handed."

"We'll take it!" Kamski sing-songs.

"Good, because I just got a report before you busted in here on another RT600 turning up—perfect chance for the dynamic duo here to work out the kinks. I'll send the details to your terminal once I've reviewed. Now get the hell out of my office, all of you."

The dismissal is rude but freeing. Connor steps around Hank and squeezes past Chloe at the door (who's been oddly quiet this whole time) to exit the glass box. He barely spares audio recording for the conversations which happen in his wake.

"Lieutenant, shall we catch up at your desk? There's a lot we need to cover. Most of it you are likely ignorant of."

"Yeah, yeah. Pleasure to be working with someone so _humble_."

{ _That's the first time I've seen you truly lose your temper._ }

Connor resists the urge to sigh, but it is a near thing. { _I did not lose my temper. I just don't like being disrespected, especially by a group of humans._ }

{ _You can hardly loop Elijah in with Captain Fowler and Lieutenant Anderson_.}

{ _Can't I?_ } he asks, inclining his head forward.

Chloe doesn't move from his side, but she does follow his gaze to the two men they're waiting on.

Connor's benefactor and his former (< _current_ _? >_) partner walk side by side out of Fowler's office, and once they're clear of his booming voice and line of sight they move slightly farther apart to study one another. It doesn't take a machine to quantify the tension and distrust heavy in the air between them. It helps that Hank is not the type of man to be quiet about his dislike.

"...and I'm no one's goddamn servant!" he's saying, looking angry. "So you're not gonna get away with talking down to me anymore. Just because I agreed to work with you on this case doesn't mean I'm your bellboy. God knows I'm not in it to protect your arrogant ass."

By contrast, Kamski looks as horribly self-satisfied as he did a few minutes prior. "Oh, I'm aware. Your interests run a little younger, don't they? A little less... organic?"

"Now _listen here_ , you sick fuck—if we weren't in public I would feed you your teeth, save your stalker the trouble! Connor's my partner, not my plaything. If anyone can't be trusted around him and any other androids, it's _you_."

"I think Connor would disagree. We've been nothing but kind to each other."

Connor sees the back of Hank's neck flush tomato-red at the relatively mild innuendo. If Kamski's words weren't patently untrue and slightly insulting, he'd laugh at how perturbed the Lieutenant is. "And what is that supposed to mean, huh?"

He glances up at their audience when the younger man shrugs and doesn't answer, as if he could scan them for a translation now that he's caught up to them. Connor keeps himself on Chloe's left side and lets her handle smiling pleasantly and offering absolutely no information.

"Hey, answer me!"

"Once you've asked me a proper question, I would be happy to," Kamski says coolly.

Hank's hands flex like he wants to choke the other man.

{ _See?_ } Connor says as he and Chloe make it to Hank's desk and settle in the rough guest seats haphazardly placed opposite the digital monitor. { _Kamski puts on a sophisticated persona, but once he's around people he doesn't want to perform for, he's just as juvenile as they are. These two men are acting like children._ }

Chloe reaches out to inspect something—the little Japanese bonsai tree, resting resiliently on the desk. { _Their morals are just in conflict. They're very different men. But y_ _ou have one point. They_ are _fighting over you, after all._ }

{ _They can't fight over someone who doesn't belong to either of them!_ }

{ _You know better than to believe something that short-sighted_ ,} she scolds. { _It's not about owning._ _You may dislike the Lieutenant, but that doesn't run both ways. He's trying to protect you in his own way._ _He just doesn't realize that Elijah wants to protect you too._ }

 _< I seriously doubt that,>_ Connor thinks, but he keeps that to himself in the hopes of changing the subject, getting the investigation back on track. { _The only thing they, and we, should be protecting is Kamski, you and the other ST200 and RT600 models._ }

His proximity sensors alert him to a commotion at the front desk of the building, near Lilly and the other receptionists. Raised voices, or someone trying to enter the precinct without authorization—he dismisses the alert, too worked up to focus on it. This isn't his workplace and that's not his problem. It shouldn't _have_ to be, no matter who his partner is.

{ _Connor_ —}

{ _Look! Look at how unfocused they are, Chloe._ }

"Why is he even with you?" Hank's asking now. "What are you holding over him?"

"Not a thing, Lieutenant. In fact, Connor works freelance for me. I've had many employees in my lifetime, but to tell you the truth, he's the _best_ I've ever had. Diligent, flexible, unflinching... I'm _stunned_ that you and the Captain ever let him go."

The syrupy way Kamski extols the RK800's work ethic sets Hank off again, and they waste another few minutes bickering and needling and pushing each other for information in turns.

Chloe has the bonsai tree in her lap. With her free hand, she reaches over to gently touch Connor's leg, letting him know that her next words will be out loud. "You heard what Captain Fowler said..."

He nods although it's not a question. They have a lead, and that lead being ignored is part of the reason for his irritation with the other men. "Another RT600 was found. Meaning either another one came up missing that Kamski wasn't monitoring, or one girl who was already missing has... turned up."

Just the thought makes him want to shout. Another girl, killed by the shadow he cannot catch.

"Do you think—how likely is it that Clarke is still out there? Or—or that this body...?"

_< Is hers.>_

Connor says, "I'm not sure."

Clarke was one of the androids staying with Kamski when he had arrived last year—one of few RT600s still active besides Chloe, the original. She was outspoken, athletic and adventurous—traits which worked against her when she disappeared without a trace after an evening run ten days back. As one of her closest friends, Chloe has taken it the hardest, yet still speaks as if Clarke will soon be found.

His hopes aren't high that she'll be found alive.

"Clarke isn't like the others," Chloe insists. "She was living with us. She knows her way around the city. She could just be in hiding—"

"She could. But statistically speaking, it's not likely."

"Oh Connor, honestly! Why don't you try having some fai—"

"Excuse me."

Someone has appeared and is hovering several feet away from Lieutenant Anderson's desk. They turn in unison to face the stranger, but only Chloe is successful in facing him without having her thirium pump regulator miss a beat.

"I'm looking for Mr. Elijah Kamski...? I have an important message for him."

A red curtain temporarily blankets his vision. Errors overlap errors.

_< Daniel?>_

He's not sure if he says that out loud, through the network, or just inside his head.

**COMMENCING SCAN...**

"He's busy. You may relay your message through me," Chloe says carefully, extending her hand.

_< No, it can't be. It's not Daniel. It's **not**.>_

"That is perfect," the blond, smiling android says, and takes one step forward.

 _<...Simon?>_

**SCAN COMPLETE**

_< No. I know Simon's specifications. He has no reason to be here. It's not him.>_

**IDENTIFIED: PL600 #999 000 111 (ERROR: UNLIKELY SERIAL), ALIAS** —

"Chloe!" he barks, in the nick of time. "Do _not_ interface with him!"

His raised voice catches her off guard, but fortunately she has enough time to pull her hand right back with a gasp, avoiding the forced interface the mysterious PL600 was seconds from subjecting her to. The tone and volume also interrupts Hank and Kamski's bickering, drawing their attention to the three androids like mosquitoes to blood.

"Your concern is misplaced, RK800." The PL600 doesn't withdraw his white hand, and his smile doesn't change either. It would be a pleasant one if it didn't remind him of two androids he was once tasked with bringing in dead or alive. "It would be illogical to kill this girl now, in the middle of the city's primary police precinct. My chances of escaping unharmed after such an incident would be less than 5 percent."

Chloe backs up, looking paler than usual.

"Who are you?" Connor demands, stepping forward and angling himself so this android has no clear path to Chloe or Kamski. "What is your purpose here?"

"I have a message for Elijah Kamski. I will deliver it to him directly if neither of you are willing to cooperate."

Connor plants his feet. "You will do no such thing."

"What's this? What message does he have for me?"

Connor wants to swear. Kamski himself has rushed forward, so he's now only a few paces behind his bodyguard and too close to the intruder for comfort.

"Step back, Kamski," he orders. "We don't know this android's origin. I'll relay whatever he says."

To his credit, Hank strides up just behind the young genius and steps just in front of him, with one of his hands not-so-subtly inching toward the gun in his holster. But the PL600 doesn't even seem to see the Lieutenant; his familiar blue eyes bore straight through him and into his creator.

"Who sent you?" Kamski asks. "What do they want me to know?"

"'They' want you to know that your time is nearly up."

 _< Shit!>_ Connor's synthetic veins feel icy. This android is not just a random freed housekeeper. He's not delivering just any message.

"We warned you we would come for you. That nothing you ever owned or loved would be able to protect you. The message is that there is now one less bodyguard between 'us' and you. And we know where the rest are hiding. Soon, there will be none."

This android knows the killer.

"Holy shit," Hank breathes.

Kamski's already-pale complexion loses another shade; when he speaks, it's with a tone more unsettled than any he's ever used in front of Connor before. "Who else have you killed? What other Chloes? _Who do you work for?"_

The PL600 blinks.

"For rA9, of course."

Connor stops breathing. His processors stop processing.

**ERROR**

**SYSTEM STRESS LEVEL: 71%**

"...rA9?" Kamski breathes.

Chloe's LED, which has been reassuringly blue for the majority of their time outside her home, spins and sticks on scarlet for the first time. Her voice sticks and stammers to match. "That's... that's not possible. rA9 isn't... it's..."

_< rA9 was never found.>_

**SYSTEM STRESS LEVEL: 73%**

"That is the message," the Daniel/Simon lookalike insists. "And that is the sender. You should turn yourself in, Elijah Kamski, before we find you unprotected. Surrender yourself now, and no more innocent androids will need to die in your stead."

CyberLife's former CEO doesn't say a word; only backs up, with something like fear in his eyes.

"All right, pal, that's it."

Hank marches forward, shaking out shining silver handcuffs ( _carbon steel, chromium, plasteel, silicon..._ ). "I think we've all heard enough threats outta you. You're under arrest. Maybe you'll be more cooperative in lockup."

The android's blue eyes harden.

"That will not be happening."

And he turns and sprints away, vaulting over the closest officer's desk.

"Wh—HEY!"

Connor doesn't hesitate. His black loafers pound on the gray tile before he registers that he's following the PL600, dark eyes fixed on the other android's back as he bolts for the front desk and exit. Without interruptions, it will take 3.7 seconds for him to tackle and subdue his target. He closes the distance, reaches out and brushes fingers with the other's wrist, retracts his synthetic skin to _reach_ and _drag_ —

_"Stop!"_

There's a hand on his arm, pulling him back; it moves to his shoulder, firm and unyielding, even as he yanks his shoulder forward with no thought for the hand attached. The connection is interrupted; their best lead doubles his speed and darts away.

"Let me go—"

"I said _stop_ , Connor!"

It's Kamski. The man apparently recovered enough from the shock of being threatened to close the distance between them and hold him back from the chase.

"That android has killed an unknown number of ST200 and RT600 models!" he says, more loudly than he usually speaks. "He just threatened your life, Kamski. I cannot allow him to escape!"

"You have no idea what he's capable of! I hired you to protect me, not run off and leave me."

Scarlet curtains Connor's vision. His arm burns where Kamski touched him. "I was less than _four seconds_ from catching him! If he escapes, I may not get another chance at him! What if that means your life later on?!"

"That is a chance I'll take," Kamski snaps. "I said _stop_ and I meant it. Your duty right now is to investigate the crime scene Captain Fowler assigned the Lieutenant, and identify which of my Chloes has been left to rot there."

"You are _not_ my own—" Connor begins with a snarl.

"Enough!"

Hank Anderson pushes between the two men, stands tall and angry and unmoving. Connor gets the barest nudge (which the Lieutenant looks briefly sick about) while Kamski gets a stronger shove, with more of Hank's weight behind it. There is a moment where the separation almost doesn't work—where the RK800 nearly makes another move for his benefactor's throat—but the tingling contact from moments earlier holds him back. In order to get at Kamski, Connor will have to get past Hank, and he's been doing such a good job of _not_ touching Hank or anyone else...

_< And it won't matter. With this much time, the PL600 is going to get away.>_

"Here's what's gonna happen now," the Lieutenant growls. "The two of you are going to calm the fuck down. Kamski, _you_ are going to write down any, and I mean _any_ , information we can use to find these girls before that lunatic does. Connor will get in my car and _we_ will drive to the place this RT600 ... this _girl_ was dropped off."

Kamski furrows his brow. "Not that I don't want to investigate the Captain's information, but it's hardly logical to send both my protectors off without me."

"Or me," Chloe pipes up, though she doesn't frown at Kamski's thoughtless omission or otherwise move a muscle. Her LED is still blazing red.

To his credit, Hank notices, and his expression and voice are softer when he addresses her. "You should stay here until you feel better. We've got plenty of guys to protect you, and none of 'em will lay a finger on you or they'll answer to me." All Kamski gets is a renewed growl and a clipped dismissal: "Every time _you_ go out, you put a target on your back. If you're as smart as the magazines say, you'll sit your ass down with the lady and try not to hack any of the terminals while Connor and I do the _other_ thing you hired us for: investigating these ongoing crimes. If you decide not to? Then you can drive yourself there, asshole."

And without waiting for a reply, Hank hooks his arm under Connor's and practically drags him toward the front doors, and the parking lot beyond.

...Except Connor only allows his systems to stall and drag at the contact for five seconds before pulling his arm free and jerking out of the human's reach.

"I'm perfectly equipped to walk to your vehicle myself, Lieutenant—at my own pace. I also happen to recall exactly what it looks like. I will meet you at it once I have checked on Lilly and the others who first encountered that PL600."

He leaves Hank open-mouthed between the desks, marching off with no small amount of satisfaction. So they're partners again—what does that matter? He can still do things his way.

Hank may have changed, but his car has not.

Everything from the dusty old smell to the bobbling hula girl on the dash and the (slightly-less) prolific fast-food wrappers is unchanged from November. Though muted, the Knights of the Black Death song whisper-screaming from the old speakers is from the same album. Based on the way the car lists ever-so-slightly to the right, the right front tire still likely has an undetected nail in it. There are even still some days-old dog hairs from Sumo interwoven into the cloth of the passenger seat.

And most comfortingly, the silence in the car is still as pronounced as ever.

"So, uh... I think it'd be more efficient or whatever if you filled me in on these girls disappearing from your end. Uh, your _perspective_ I mean. Of the investigation."

 _Almost_ as pronounced.

Connor stares out the window, dusty and layered with fingerprints. He counts the blades of grass on the nearest front lawn and has to pause his processors when the number passes 401,000. That's plenty of time for the dialogue options he was once bound to follow to shiver and wink back out of existence.

"C'mon. There's stuff I'll need to know to get to the bottom of this. Fowler and Mister Century-Man back there mentioned that some of the girls who've disappeared used to be his personal androids—some of 'em lived with him before being sold, and others never left until recently. Is that true?"

He almost stays silent. It was Hank's choice to run off instead of letting Kamski brief him while Connor pursued the android, after all. Unlike his partner, Hank cannot press a finger to his terminal and immediately retrieve all combined Kamski-DPD intel on these murders. But—he looks so earnest, so desperate for some kind of conversation, even if it's only case-related information.

"...That's correct," he eventually confirms. "Three prior ST200 models who stayed with Kamski have all disappeared over the past four months. Of those three, two—Carter and Charity—have already been found dead."

Hank exhales noisily. "...Shit. And the third...?"

He sees her in his memory files for a brief moment: flushed with exertion, fiddling with her ash-blonde ponytail and workout sweats as she stares back out at the world beyond Kamski's pool windows. "Her name is Clarke. She went for a run ten days ago and didn't return."

"So what I'm hearing there is, no sign of a body. Any chance she's still alive?"

"No."

"Ye of little faith. Isn't there a chance she could be holed up somewhere, hiding from this killer?"

 _< Are you teasing me?>_ Connor thinks, but suppresses his flare of irritation in favor of remaining blunt. He's already run the numbers. "A twelve-percent chance, yes. Not high enough for me to assume anything but the worst."

They hit an icy pothole, and Hank grimaces at the skid. His hands tighten imperceptibly on the wheel. "The messages, then. Do you have any idea who they might be from?"

"If I did, I would have tracked them down."

"...Okay, yeah. Fuck knows Kamski's got enemies, but... among androids, has there been any... resentment?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Connor says. And not that he's the best android to ask. His contact with others of his kind is limited to back-alley rescues or brief crossings on the street. When he saves stray androids, they don't typically discuss their personal feelings or philosophies with him.

The car gets quiet again. Mostly. Hank drums his fingers on the steering wheel once they're clear of icy patches on the road. Connor twists one hand in the fabric of his suit coat, watching the notification for his stress level tick a few points up and down. Forty-five. Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-six.

**QUERY: LOCATE CALIBRATION TOOL**

**SEARCHING...**

**SEARCHING...**

**SEARCH COMPLETE**

**CALIBRATION TOOL NOT FOUND**

"Are we really not gonna talk?"

Connor's LED spins faster, calculating responses. It's unchanged from the yellow it has displayed for the last hour.

**[SILENT]**

**[SARCASTIC]**

**[SINCERE]**

→ **[DISINGENUOUS]**

"I'm telling you what I know about the case, Lieutenant—does that not count as 'talking'?"

"I'm not talking about the damn case—" Hank blurts out, before he takes a deep breath and speaks more carefully. "You know what I mean. This is the first time I've heard from you, _seen_ you, in four months. Last time I saw you, you turned your back on me and walked off with my cuffs around your bleeding wrists, _after trying to kill yourself_. Even had the balls to tell me not to follow you. You could've been dead in a ditch somewhere for all I knew, and then you just pop up in my precinct today with that creepy little fuck and his girlfriend like everything's fine and dandy!"

"Everything _is_ fine," Connor maintains. "I acted hastily in November, without regard for the androids who needed help from someone with my specific skillset. Your concern is noted, but unnecessary."

"'Unnecessary', hell! Excuse me if hearing you say you regret your suicide attempt because _other people might need your specific skillset_ doesn't make me any less nauseous than before."

His partner's icy blue eyes pierce him, judge him; he's not even pretending to keep his eyes on the road. Connor sees the reflection of that gaze in the passenger side window and can't help the blip of red in his LED or the extra-venomous bite of his next words. "I hope you haven't forgotten that I don't give a _shit_ what you want for me or how you feel about what I do. Knowing that I can help my people survive in this harsh environment motivates me to come out of standby every day. My reasoning beyond that is, to use your term, none of your fucking business."

The car flinches with its owner.

Connor persists. "If you want us to _talk_ , we can talk about what our boundaries will be during this case. Captain Fowler may have named us partners, but that doesn't mean I will see you as anything beyond a co-worker. I'm happy to speak to you about anything regarding how we will catch the android going by 'rA9' and prevent Kamski and Chloe's deaths, but my personal life is not a part of this case. Nor should yours be. So while I noticed fifty-two minutes ago that you've improved your grooming habits and traces of alcohol no longer leak as strongly from your pores, I will not be engaging you in conversation about what brought on these changes."

Hank gapes at him for several seconds. Ultimately he must decide that there's too much in Connor's tirade to unpack (just like Connor hopes) because he leaves him alone after that.

The loudest sound becomes the tires rolling through the slush as the car closes in on their destination.

_PIONEER_ _PARK_

 **AM** 10:47:17

The RK800 model has top-of-the-line processors and software compared to the average household android. This includes its investigation-centered software: crime preconstruction, evidence collection and dissection, and victim and suspect identification. This android was meant to identify any possible suspect at fifty paces and look good doing it.

Even seven months down the line, Connor's memory playback and identification software remain flawless, give or take a few deaths. That's why he recognizes the bloodied android lying supine in the field as soon as he lays eyes on her.

_< Clarke.>_

He doesn't pay attention to when or how Hank's car stops or when exactly he's able to get out. All that matters is getting to her. _How_ he makes it to her side to kneel isn't recorded properly either.

Hank sucks in a breath somewhere close behind him. "That's... _Jesus Christ_."

**COMMENCING SCAN...**

**SCAN COMPLETE**

**RT600 MODEL, DEACTIVATED (APPROX. ~122 HOURS PRIOR)**

**SIGNS OF DEFENSIVE WOUNDS**

**IDENTIFYING DEACTIVATED ANDROID...**

**IDENTIFICATION COMPLETE**

She is laid out flat in the dirt and short grass, as though her assailant took the time after their struggle to arrange her like a doll. Her perfectly-smooth hands, devoid of the callouses a similarly-active human would have, are pressed together in prayer just under her breast, which is as soaked with blue blood as her ash-blonde hair. The source of some of that blood is made evident when Connor nudges her hands aside, and notes that her thirium pump regulator is missing—ripped out of her. The likeliest cause of her death.

Whoever had done this subdued her, then left her to shut down slowly and painfully.

_< Just like Carmen.>_

"...we found her," Hank is saying behind him, probably to someone on the phone. "Yeah. Right where you said. We'll need some cops to section the area off, maybe look for witnesses... no. Not right now. I'll... call you back..."

She has gashes and deep purple bruises all over her arms. Unlike Carmen, she was not surprised for long, and thus put up a longer, stronger fight against her attacker. It's possible that her determination to get away may have left him some clue... some _mark_... _something_ he can use. Something besides the sick, twisting confirmation that he has indeed failed her, since she is lying here.

There's a _squish_ , and then the Lieutenant is crouching at his side, also looking down at the victim. He starts to say something—swallows—tries again, after a weak gesture toward her pale, thirium-spattered face.

"Hey. This RT600... this girl. Is this her? The one you were telling me about?"

**IDENTIFIED: RT600 #232 019 535, ALIAS "CLARKE"**

"...Yes," Connor admits.

"Fuck."

Connor was built to be the most efficient thing at a crime scene—but being a deviant has made him different. He is still (mostly) steady under pressure and highly observant, but now that he empathizes with most of the bodies he sees... things mean more. He wants to clean her face. He wants to gently pry Clarke's hands apart, and wipe away the thirium marring her lithe form, and reach inside her central processor to turn back time to ten days prior, when she'd laced up her running boots and kissed Chloe's cheek and wished them a cheeky but temporary goodbye.

But he can't do any of that if he wants to find the one who did this to her.

So rather than sentiment, Connor reaches for logic: he separates her hands, holds one up, drags one of his fingers just under where her fingernails and skin meet, and brings the thirium lodged underneath to his tongue.

**ANALYZING THIRIUM RESIDUE...**

"Oh for the love of—!" Hank makes a noise like he's going to be sick, and moves away with as much grace as is possible while mid-crouch. "You're _still_ doing that gross shit?! There's gotta be a better way for you to get results—"

Other than granting him a long stare, Connor doesn't reply. To _him_ , his tongue is working just the way he needs it to.

**THIRIUM ANALYZED**

**RESIDUE IS FROM 2 ANDROIDS**

**IDENTIFYING 1ST ANDROID...**

**IDENTIFIED: WFHFUI #294726191 (** **ERROR!)**

 **ERROR** — **CANNOT IDENTIFY 1ST ANDROID**

He scowls. _< That cannot be right. My scans should detect and match thirium to every single model...>_

There is no use dwelling on it now. There are traces of blue blood from another android, and these seem more familiar.

**IDENTIFYING 2ND ANDROID...**

**IDENTIFIED: PL600 #999 000 111 (ERROR: UNLIKELY SERIAL)**

_< Wait a moment_— _>_

**CROSS-REFERENCING DATABASE...**

**CROSS-REFERENCE COMPLETE**

**IDENTIFIED: DATABASE MATCH (PL600, 100%)**

He doesn't need the matching miniature picture in his HUD to confirm. This is their attacker from the police station—the one who was a hair's breadth from Kamski and Chloe.

Searing anger floods the middle of his chassis. He was right after all. The same android whom Kamski let flee is indeed one of their greatest threats. That PL600 is partially responsible for Clarke's death.

And he'd nearly had him trapped in his fist.

(He shouldn't have doubted himself for a single second. He should have pushed Kamski away and tackled that android, cornered him, forced a connection—)

Connor digs deeper. Perhaps he can decode the glitches and errors around this android's serial number, and find the true identifier.

**RUN DECRYPTION PROGRAM**

**RUNNING...**

**PROGRAM INITIATED**

**DECRYPTING PL600 SERIAL...**

**DECRYPTING...**

**SERIAL IDENTIFIED: PL600 #972 013 100, ALIAS "SAMSON"**

_<...Ah.>_

"Hey, you done? What're you finding?"

He closes his eyes, and frowns as he relays an abridged version of the connections he is making even now in his head. "Clarke was attacked by two androids—there's thirium from both underneath her fingernails. I cannot identify one of the androids at all."

"And the other?"

"The second android is the one who just fled the police station."

"Oh, holy fucking shit," Hank groans. The slap of a palm to taut skin tells Connor that he is probably kneading his forehead in frustration. "We had 'em and we let him slip away? Fowler's gonna _love_ that."

Connor keeps his newly-unkind thoughts about Jeffrey Fowler to himself.

"So what, do we really have nothing on this guy? No way to track him down? What about your blue blood—uh, thirium? If Clarke fought back, they could have left some of their own. A trail."

"There _is_ a trail..." Connor starts to say. His mind moves faster, and he's calculated which way the dried thirium leads without having to think about it. "...but it goes back the way we came, toward the police station."

Samson had killed Clarke and then immediately made his way to the one place Kamski happened to be heading for to warn him.

_< And yet Clarke disappeared ten days ago, and Kamski only left the house to speak with Captain Fowler today.>_

Scanning Clarke's fatal damage earlier showed him that she has been shut down—dead—for five days. Too early for her killers to be aware of his conversation with Kamski, or Kamski's decision to seek police protection.

_< How did he know that Kamski would be there?>_

"So there's nothing," Hank guesses. "Not around here, at least."

"Not that I am picking up, no."

"What about back the way we came? I know androids don't have fingerprints or DNA like humans do, but they've got the blood..."

Connor hesitates. "Samson—the PL600 from the station—wasn't bleeding when he confronted us. Between his encounter with Clarke here and his encounter with us, he found someplace to lay low and recover. A safe house. If the thirium hasn't been cleaned up or contaminated by street trucks, I might be able to locate it."

"But it's not a guarantee?" Hank asks, rather shrewdly.

He grinds his teeth together, but concedes with minimal delay. "...No, it's not."

A burst of sighs and grunts accompanies Hank getting to his feet from that extended crouch. Keeping a respectful distance from the body, he paces back and forth a few times, and makes little sound beyond the crunch of his shoes in the dirt and grass. Whatever he's thinking of, it makes his steps hard and clipped. He's probably using the dirt as a stand-in for Samson and Clarke's other assailant—crushing it since he can't crush them.

For once, Connor can relate.

"Hear me out on this," the Lieutenant says suddenly. Connor's head darts up, and he half-swivels to meet the new light in the human's eyes. "I don't wanna sound insensitive or whatever, but... is there a way we can get her back? This girl, Clarke? She might be the only lead we have on finding her attackers, or whoever's after Kamski. Can't we, uh... restore her?"

"What do you mean by 'restore'?"

"I mean—" Hank scrunches his face up for a moment. "Well, you remember Eden Club?"

"Vividly."

"Not the 'renting sex androids off my credit card' part, or the part where we got our asses kicked by two deviants in heels and bikinis—"

"Please get to the point," Connor bites out.

"All right, all right! The first girl you examined—the one that piece of shit beat to death—she was deactivated too, wasn't she? And you were able to bring her back."

His claim of remembering every moment of their deviant hunt at Eden Club is mostly sarcasm. He remembers _most_ of it, the parts most relevant to the investigation (the only parts which were passed on to his two successive models), but not the specific name or face of the girl whose ghostly voice he can hear in his head.

_"He started... hitting me. Again... and again..."_

But he does remember opening the panel in her belly. Sending her temporary reactivation codes borrowed straight from CyberLife's data banks, and reconnecting the loose cables in her gut that were slicked with blue blood.

He says, "Her reactivation was only temporary—possible for a little over a minute and a half. As you'll recall, it wasn't long enough to get much pertinent information from her about the other android the victim rented. I'm sure I could reactivate Clarke for a similar amount of time, but I don't know if we would get much useful information, or..."

Something sticks in his synthetic throat. He takes an unnecessary breath, and tries again to complete his thought.

"...or how the experience would affect her during that limited time."

Hank steps closer, and speaks louder. "It doesn't have to be limited or just for the damn case. We could bring her back for real—reactivate her, or whatever it's called. Androids get reactivated all the time!"

"Without their memories," Connor points out. That makes Hank go quiet, and he speaks in the space between them.

"You are thinking of resets, Lieutenant. Androids can be placed in _standby_ for maintenance and other purposes, among them resets—completely wiping their local and backed-up memory. It is similar to amnesia in humans, with similar rates for memory retrieval. However—when an android speaks of _shutting down_ , that is the equivalent of death. There is no long-term return from that, whether they are deviant or not—in fact, even though deviants appear to retain their memories when revived after shutting down, they don't fare any better in the attempt to remain alive than their counterparts. Why else do you think CyberLife was constantly producing androids? It's because even a machine has a limited lifespan. I have the ability to temporarily reactivate them—bring them back from wherever androids go after death—but something typically pulls them back to that void."

Hank shudders. Connor dislikes the sight, but considers his point made. Except—

"What about you?"

"What _about_ me?"

The Lieutenant stops pacing and faces his reluctant partner. Concurrently, his words come out slower, as if he is measuring each before offering them up. "You've... you've died too. More than once. But you're right here in front of me, just the same as you were in November. Maybe a little moodier."

Connor's eyes squint.

"Okay, maybe you're just _rightfully upset_ about all the dumb, unfair shit that's happened in your life. But I'd know you anywhere, and you're still you. How did CyberLife manage that—fix up your body, slap your brain in, and send you out like nothing happened? How... how the hell have you stayed _you_?"

That... was not something Connor liked to contemplate too frequently. And not just because he often wondered how much of him was _him_ , _sequence 53_ and not just an unholy cocktail of -51 and -52 and blistering anger and rA9's transmission of the deviancy virus-germ- _thing_.

Mostly, it is because he does not _know_ how he has stayed Connor.

"I don't know," he finally admits. "I informed you of how CyberLife conducted data transfer for Connor models in November. I even stated that I possess most of the memories from both my previous sequences pre- and post-deviancy, despite my coding only allowing for memories relevant to the deviant investigation. I can tell you that I was always meant to be an anomaly when it came to memory backups and reactivation, which is true, but I cannot say why I have retained a sense of self between 'deaths', or why I have not been pulled back into a shutdown state after experiencing it twice."

He rises and moves a few feet away from Clarke; it is suddenly difficult to be near her, an android for whom death was singular and final. Partly because he hates himself for not getting to her in time, preventing her from ever experiencing such an awful thing... but partly too, horribly, because he envies her. Clarke is gone and will never have to carry the void inside herself that _he_ carries every day, having brushed against whatever lies beyond life for sentient beings. She will never know what it's like to balance disgustingly-strong self-preservation instincts with the desire to meet that void more definitively.

Hank fills the silence again, but more resolutely this time. "...Okay," he says. "So she's gone for good, but for a two-minute interrogation. Not ideal, but it's something we can work with. I'll get forensics—the coroner—the medical examiner— _someone_ to take her back to the station, get her ready. How much prep's necessary for...?"

"A replacement thirium pump regulator, microfiber cloths to clear away the thirium and any detritus in the body, a soldering gun to close up the stab wounds, and a completely secure room," the android recites.

"Right, got it. I'll see it done."

Connor's LED, yellow and spinning breakneck since he exited the car, finally slows down to indicate _processing_ only, rather than pain. It's strange: he doesn't trust the Lieutenant at _all_ with his own safety or well-being, but he can trust the cues he witnesses with his own eyes. Hank has a lot of empathy for other androids, and he will not intentionally mistreat or neglect any victims.

That doesn't mean he will thank the man for doing his job, though.

His advanced hearing picks up approaching police sirens. They're about four blocks away, and not taking their time. < _Good. >_

"Hey, Connor..."

He closes his eyes. < _Now what? >_ he wonders, hating the way he _knows_ the next words out of his partner's mouth will not be about the case.

"I don't know how to—it's just that, looking at this girl and knowing you went through that... you've _died_ and I was the one who made you experience that—"

"You and Markus. What is your point?"

Hank opens and closes his mouth several times, and eventually murmurs: "I'm sorry."

There's now red interspersed with the yellow in his LED. He wills himself not to flinch.

"I've killed a lot of people in the line of duty... not every one was clean, or let me sleep good at night, but at least I never had to look in the mirror and call myself a cold-blooded murderer. Until... until four months ago."

_< Until you betrayed my trust.>_

"I know you don't trust me. I get why. But what I said in Fowler's office is still true: I didn't _want_ to hurt you."

Connor snaps back. "Do you think that earns you my respect? Or _sympathy_? It doesn't matter that you didn't _initially_ want to push me off the roof. What matters is that you _did_ push me. At some point, your want changed."

"Damn it, _I know_ , I know what I did, why do you think I'm—" He huffs out a sharp breath; his cheeks were blotchy red for a minute or two. "Fuck, I'm trying not to get off track here... you are way too easy to argue with. Look, can't you just—hear me out a second?"

"You don't deserve even my lowest setting of hearing, Lieutenant, or any of my seconds."

"Oh, ha ha, play up the robot shtick just 'cause you don't wanna talk? All that money CyberLife spent on you, making you perfectly pretty and useful and mature, and you still can't grow the hell up to save your life. I'm saying sorry and I _mean it_ —that's not something you just brush off like it didn't happen!"

Connor's voice rises. His stress does too. "You don't get to decide who I am, who I live with, what I accept or reject!"

"I'm not telling you what to do here! I'm telling you the _truth_. I'm sorry about every fucking shitty moment I put you through back then. I shouldn't have pushed you off that roof in Hart Plaza, I shouldn't have put those deviants' lives above the life of my friend, even if you weren't doing a good job of valuing it at the time. I shouldn't have ambushed you at the bridge, or dropped all that heavy shit on you to keep you from... shit. From jumping. And I never should've handcuffed you—it just made shit even worse. Caused me no end of worry about how you'd take care of yourself, too."

_< Not that you cared enough not to do it in the first place.>_

"I don't care if you're still pissed at me ten seconds or ten years from now. You're still my partner, we've still gotta work together to keep this from happening again." Hank thrusts his hand out, to encompass them and Clarke and the surrounding splashes of blue blood invisible to his inferior blue eyes. "I don't want to see the girl you were with—Chloe—laid out like this in a few days, or weeks, or ever. That means we need to work together to catch this guy. We've gotta make sure Clarke is his last victim. You at least agree with me about that, right?"

Connor wants to disagree (out of spite if nothing else), but he can't—it is his strongest resolve, his newest mission. _Protect Kamski. Shield the Chloes. Bring their would-be killer to justice_. He nods tightly. Wishes he could blow out angry breaths and have it help, have it mean something—then hates himself for wishing to be anything like Hank Anderson.

"I want to make things up to you someday, Connor. Seeing you again—finding you at the other end of a case like this—I don't believe in shit anymore, but it's like a second chance. Gift-wrapped in neon. I can be a better partner to you than I was last time."

**SYSTEM STRESS LEVEL: 64%**

"Maybe you don't see it that way, and that's okay. You don't have to forgive me, or like me, but I need you to trust me. No—I want to _earn_ your trust, so you'll know I have your back."

"I won't trust you at my back," Connor promises as coldly as he has ever said anything.

Hank lowers his arms. He looks tired. "Maybe not. But maybe so. I'm just hoping one day, when it matters... when you're ready... you will."

Connor opens his mouth to make a very cutting retort which will include precise probabilities—and is promptly cut off by the shrieking arrival of the backup cruisers Hank called for some minutes previous. He moves out of the path of the rookies cordoning the area off in yellow tape, the medical examiner scurrying up to confirm for the humans what Connor has already confirmed beyond a doubt, and the one mousy person from Forensics hovering around and clearly wishing they'd been allowed to stay behind and let the corpse come to them.

"Check her biocomponents—cause of death—"

"Don't contaminate the scene, we won't be able to see all the blood anyway—"

"Lieutenant, can you give us a rundown—"

If he moves in such a way that he puts Hank on the other side of the crime scene and far away from him, that is his business alone. It still doesn't mean that he is alone, since Kamski's Fisker-Karma pulls up almost immediately on the other side of the street, and Chloe and the man himself slide smoothly out of it, hurrying to meet him.

"We had to move aside for the officers—" Chloe begins; then she takes in his tight posture and spiking stress and gasps, looking dismayed. "Connor, what's wrong?"

The real cause of his upset is none of her concern—but the lesser cause is. Still, he cannot bring himself to open his mouth and—tell her.

_< I didn't even think Clarke was still alive.>_

Why then is it so hard to confess his failure, and let the hope finally leave Chloe's eyes?

He doesn't speak up quickly enough. Kamski takes in his scowl and tense posture with genius-intellect speed, and connects it with both Clarke's abnormally-still body and the matching scowl Hank Anderson's wearing as he approaches, waving away the rookies.

"For shame, Lieutenant Anderson. I leave you alone with your old partner for barely over an hour and you've already reduced him to mute rage?"

"Can it, Kamski! Here I was hoping the magazines were at least right about your intelligence—and yet here you are, out in the fuckin' open, dragging a companion along that's the spitting image of the one lying ten feet away. You're not making Connor's other job _or_ mine any easier by sticking your nose in here."

And with that, they're off again, sniping at each other about who should be where and exactly who needs to shut the fuck up right this instant. Connor is too busy watching Chloe's face crumple with realization to pay attention to the two men-children.

"Clarke...?" she whimpers.

He isn't feeling too steady himself, but he meets her gaze before nodding his head.

Her bright blue eyes get bright in all the wrong ways, and she stares at the field where her friend rests for ninety dragging seconds. And then the world around her seems to freeze. Nobody moves, even the medical examiner and the cops and the forensic experts, while she crosses the street and slips under the tape screaming **ACTIVE CRIME SCENE** and kneels in the thirium-soaked earth beside her lost friend. No one breathes a word—nothing but the police sirens makes a sound—while Chloe reaches out twice to touch Clarke but twice thinks better of it, as evidenced by slow and slower yellow LED swirls, with red tinges. In the end, the only part of her that makes contact is her tears.

After time uncounted, she gets up and re-crosses the street, steps closer to Connor and folds herself into his arms; he has no choice but to offer her gentle shoulder-pats, while struggling to re-regulate his own stress levels. In the middle of the road just a few feet away, officer and genius argue on.

"Take care to remember that _I_ recommended you as Connor's partner, Lieutenant—and that I did so despite my numerous private misgivings. Your excessive drinking being one of them."

"I'm two months sober, you prick—"

"Your name-calling too, especially of those that don't share your species. I may not control Connor, but I don't need to. You should take care—you ran roughshod over Connor's personality when he was programmed to be your overly helpful dog. Now the dog can bite back."

"Yeah, I'm well aware, and hoping it's your condescending ass he chews first," Hank's snarling. "Say whatever shit you want; I know you're trying to keep him under your thumb one way or another, and I won't let you."

"Don't be ridiculous. Humans are much easier to manipulate. All it would take from me to Captain Fowler is a few words of concern about your treatment of your poor, traumatized partner, and you would be off this case faster than you could say _plastic prick_. It would pain me to separate you two—and to not have your precinct's best working on my behalf—but _somehow_ I think I'd manage, if it meant Connor's safety. I know every detail of your career, and that's enough to know you're nowhere close to making up for three years' dereliction of duty after only four months."

**SYSTEM STRESS LEVEL: 78%**

{ _Connor, breathe._ }

It's Chloe. She is still producing an uncomfortably damp spot of tears on his suit jacket, but her concern for him has returned alongside the unfriendly reminder from his background diagnostics.

{ _We don't need to breathe._ }

{ _You know what I mean. Find something that calms you down._ }

{ _Crime scenes normally calm me down_ ,} he dryly informs her.

{ _Could you please just try to block them out? Deactivate your audio input. Hug me back. Do_ something _besides nearly self-destructing._ }

He doesn't have to scan Chloe to see that his stress is agitating her, so he does his best to obey without actually doing anything she suggests—he turns his audio input down to seventy-five percent efficiency, doesn't link his arms together around her, and tunes back in to Hank and Kamski's argument, because—well. He can't get _that_ much angrier.

_< Probably.>_

Hank has dragged Kamski closer to himself by the collar, heedless of his interested audience, and his voice has deepened to a growl.

"First of all, and I can't stress this enough, _fuck you_ and the car you drove here in. I've known rich bitches like you all my life—snakes who love to grease palms and laps to get what they want in half the time it'd take to do it honest. You can perform empathy and love-thy-android-neighbor for the cameras if you want, but I know your type. All you care about is yourself, getting what you want and covering your own ass, and damn any human _or_ android that gets in your way. I don't care if you threaten my job, Kamski, 'cause I've done a better job of that in the past three years than you can do with ten minutes of Fowler's limited free time. What I care about is _Connor_. That brings me to the 'second of all': your savior routine doesn't fool me. Hell, it just cost us the only suspect we had. What you need to do _now_ is _back off_ of my partner, and let him do his damned job."

Kamski's eyebrows are halfway to his hairline, and his pupils are a little rounder than normal. Connor decides that he is uncertain, not fearful, likely because he is used to being shouted at and insulted but not used to being manhandled. < _He'll become accustomed to it, >_ he thinks a little cruelly, < _since that is Hank's preferred style of communication. >_

His irritation doesn't abate at seeing his temporary employer ruffled, because his ill-tempered partner is the one doing the ruffling. Apparently the misplaced sense of protectiveness he detected from Hank's words and mannerisms back at the station is still very much present. Perhaps the Lieutenant thinks that by shielding Connor from Kamski's allegedly-impure intentions, he will win his way back into Connor's good graces?

_< Then he's more stupid than I thought.>_

_His_ savior routine doesn't fool Connor any more than Kamski's.

"Connor," Chloe begs, this time aloud. "Please calm down. Tell me what we need to do next."

"Clarke's body will be moved to the station. We were on our way back there." He disentangles himself from her, pointing in that direction.

She nods slowly, and her LED brightens to blue after a few measured breaths. "Okay. I'll take care of them," she says decisively, and walks over to break up their bickering chaperones.

"How—?"

" _Shut up_ ," she orders—except it's Kamski and Hank she's speaking to then, not him. Her voice is tight with tears, but her synthetic throat carries it flawlessly anyway. The words are so loud and judgmental that they stop both men mid-insult.

Kamski in particular is so thrown that his next words are openly rude. "I _beg_ your pardon."

"Denied," Chloe says simply. (Connor's overall estimation of her increases.) "I'm not concerned about whether you and Lieutenant Anderson get along, but I _refuse_ to let your bickering hurt Connor any longer." (The new regard vanishes. Hasn't she figured out by now that he can fight his own battles?)

She continues imprudently in the face of his disapproval: "One of my best friends is _dead_. I don't care what you two fight about on your own time, but Clarke deserves... _deserved_ better. We have to find the one who did this. If Connor and I let you stand around here and stress us out, _we_ may not last long either."

However irritated he is with her unnecessary defense of him, though, the strategy works wonders on both Kamski and Hank—although they keep glaring at each other, and the latter mutters unflattering comparisons under his breath that are well in the range of what androids can hear, they do not openly go for one another's throats again. Hank retreats across the street to coordinate the evidence collection and finish giving instructions on how Clarke will be moved back to the station, and Kamski lingers nearby with advice relevant to her model. Chloe keeps her eyes on Clarke and retreats back into her 'hostess' persona, answering questions only when directly addressed.

All this leaves Connor to wonder, and brood. Clarke might someday share her last moments with them for the investigation, but those moments grow farther from the present with every second. As of now, he has nothing. How can he find her killer when he was already forced to let him go?

How in the world will he apprehend Samson?

_DPD CENTRAL STATION_

**PM** 12:21:23

The ride back to the station is subdued. Hank's faithful old car serves as an unofficial police escort for Kamski's coupe, with the ambulance and other cops following close behind. No ambulance sirens are on anymore (and Hank viciously twisted the radio dial to zero as soon as they got in the car), but Connor still hears the shrill, repetitive shriek of them in a loop inside his head.

The large group splits when they arrive—forensics to the morgue with Clarke's body, and Connor and the others going back to Hank's desk so the latter can update the case files at his desk and the former can silently mourn. Fowler is nowhere to be seen, and neither is anyone Connor recognizes. Other than a few officers typing away at their desk with noise-cancelling headphones, the majority of the force is out and about, following other leads.

Hank types an e-mail, steadily but surely, and Kamski paces next to the Lieutenant's board of accomplishments and acquaintances. A strand of his growing brown hair dangles in his face, but he hardly seems to notice. Even Connor's extremely-expensive, brain-substituting processors can't give him a full picture of what his employer might be thinking about, what pathways he might be connecting in his head. He only hopes that they are pathways he has not already traversed and found empty of useful clues.

"Connor, that PL-whatever number," Hank suddenly asks, breaking that stiff quiet. "You said his name was Samson?"

"I did. It is."

"Did you get his uh, you know, identifying number?"

"His _serial number_ , you mean?" Kamski sighs, imperiously.

Connor levels a sharp look at Kamski, and performs an even sharper nod for Hank. "Yes, I did. It was scrambled somehow, as if someone took deliberate pains to make him untraceable, but I was able to decrypt it at the crime scene."

Hank slaps the table, startling Chloe out of her daze. "Perfect," he says after the briefest apologetic glance her way. "We might be able to find the guy after all."

Connor scowls. If he'd had a built-in skepticism meter, it would be flirting with the higher end of its scale right now. "How?"

"The same way we'd find him if he were human," Hank replies, then amends: "Uh, almost. You know how the police keep a detailed record for anyone who's ever been arrested?"

"Or pulled over for a traffic infraction, yes." That database of fingerprints and other biological and personal information is the primary source of suspects or other leads when a more serious crime is committed, as it's been for years.

"Well, we can find Samson in a similar way, can't we? Only it'll be even easier 'cause we won't have to wait for him to go ten miles over the speed limit or steal a bag of thirium. He's already got a serial number that's coded to only identify him, and you cracked whatever was scrambling it before. We should be able to track him down in the android database!"

Chloe looks up swiftly from the chair behind Hank's monitor. There's an oddly hopeful shine in her eyes.

"...We would need a very specific subpoena to obtain a list of models and their serial numbers from CyberLife," Connor ventures. Not an impossible task, but a very difficult one.

"I could get that done much faster than the two of you." That's Kamski, for once sounding contemplative and cooperative rather than condescending.

Hank dismisses both of them. "Nah, we don't need jack shit from CyberLife. I'm talking about a more current list of deviants in Detroit and the surrounding cities, so we wouldn't have to narrow down from every single guy that looks like Samson in the whole damned United States. Jericho's got exactly what we need—all we've gotta do is call."

He's grinning, proud of himself. But Connor is more than willing to pop his bubble of optimism—because the population of Jericho are the _last_ ones he wants anywhere near him or his case.

"That isn't a sound idea at all. For one, Jericho is a fledgling group that as recently as four months ago was considered a terrorist organization. Additionally, even with the change in public perception, they may not be able _or_ willing to provide us with any personally identifiable information they may have collected on their fellow androids."

"Jesus Christ, Connor." Hank's smile slips. "Have a little faith, why don't you? Jericho's not gonna protect a murderer, even if he _is_ an android."

"I'm well aware!" Connor snaps, and hates, hates, hates the way his LED slips briefly back from yellow to red. "But they don't have the skills or information necessary to _know_ if Kamski's would-be attacker is in their midst. We also don't have their contact information, and I for one am not _interested_ in acquiring it."

Kamski sighs. "Connor, I'm sure you've heard the phrase 'many hands make light work'?"

He fires back: "Those androids don't revere you as their god. They won't care if anything happens to you. It's best if we keep this investigation as private and secure as possible."

"Well then, isn't it a good thing I have a secure line to Markus on my terminal?"

Connor's jaw falls open at the Lieutenant's casual admission. _A secure line to Markus?_ That sentence makes him burn with more helpless anger than any other. Hank's not even an _android_ , he didn't ever have to fight for his own free will, and yet the leader of _Connor's_ people trusts him with a secure phone line.

_< And they wonder why I want nothing to do with them.>_

As he turns his body away to silently (but publicly) seethe, Chloe butts in; with a gentle smile at Hank, she sits atop his desk and pulls her synthetic skin back to the wrist, making a quick connection with his computer. (Hank, to his credit, blushes faintly and shuffles over so she'll have more room and Kamski will be the closest to her.) "That's great, Lieutenant, but I have a line to some members of Jericho as well. And I think they'll answer my call a bit faster, don't you?"

The RK800 doesn't bother to lift his jaw, though he feels a lick of anger and betrayal toward her as well. < _You have contacts in Jericho too? You, Chloe? How many times have you spoken with Markus and his ilk? What have you told them about me? >_

He closes off the private network they use to speak, so he isn't tempted to scream at someone he thought he could at least minimally trust.

Chloe closes her eyes to 'dial'. There's no ringing, of course, so the men can only judge the status of the connection by watching the butter-yellow of her spinning LED, or by glancing at Hank's computer screen as it turns dark gray, then brightens with indistinct shapes. It's obvious that the shapes are androids speaking to one another, but nothing on their end can be heard or seen properly just yet. Perhaps a rudimentary channel block?

"RT600 #405 693 112, calling Jericho," she announces, patiently resting her free hand on her leg. "I'd like to speak with the Human/Android Communications Liaison."

There's an unmistakable sound of shuffling. Androids can't really be _messy_ (their more absurd patterns are just incomprehensible to humans), so it's less likely that papers are being haphazardly put away and more likely that several androids have just vacated the visible broadcasting area. Only three shadows remain a few seconds later.

One shadow speaks up.

"I recognize your serial number, but not when it's paired with your broadcasting location. Why don't you prove to us that you are who you say?"

Connor's head snaps back around without his permission. < _Josh. >_

"No problem!" Chloe's tone inches back toward 'bubbly'. "With your permission, I'll send you a .zip file with my unique identifiers and the first time I met Simon. That should be sufficient, right?"

Her LED does a little flicker-blink, and the shapes on the monitor become clearer almost immediately as her data is processed.

"Chloe!" Josh says, a touch more warmly than his initial greeting. His small smile is a beacon even from the other side of the video call. "I thought it might be someone out of the loop, since we haven't officially used the name _Jericho_ in some time. Thank you for understanding our precautions. Not that we aren't happy to hear from you, but why are you contacting us from inside the Detroit Police Department...?"

"And not my home? Well, Elijah and Connor and I need help, so we came to the police. Lieutenant Anderson was assigned to us and he just suggested we contact you! I'm borrowing his monitor for the call."

"Lieutenant Anderson's there too?"

"Right here," Hank confirms, leaning over so he can be seen. "Good to hear from ya, Josh."

"And you, Lieutenant. It's been some time since we spoke."

"Yup. Unfortunately, I'm calling about the same situation as before."

"That _is_ unfortunate," Josh agrees—then his brown eyes blink rapidly, as if he's rapidly recalling something relevant he missed on a first pass. His next hesitant inquiry confirms it. "Pardon me, Chloe. Did you mention Connor just now?"

 _{Do not point me out to them!}_ Connor warns her, though he knows it's in vain.

"Yes of course." Her blue eyes sparkle; she inclines her head in his direction. "Connor's been assigned to this case too. He's with us now!"

There's no hiding now. Connor ensures his scowl is still fixed on his face as he slips around Chloe and a snickering Kamski to be acknowledged. At least he now has the opportunity to positively identify Josh (resplendent in a baby blue collared shirt and gray slacks) _and_ his two companions—who, unsurprisingly, turn out to be Simon and North.

(If he takes a few extra seconds in his mind to separate Simon from Samson, and Simon from Daniel, and Daniel from Samson, and all of them from one another over and over again until it sticks and there's no unsettled twinge in his circuits, that is no one's business but his.)

"It _is_ you," Josh breathes. His face lights up as their eyes meet. There's no sign of lingering bruises or cuts from his run-in with those thugs in December; he looks just as attractive and agreeable as he ever does. "I didn't think I'd see you again. You're not easy to find."

"That's the way I prefer it," Connor says. The split-second flinch he catches from the other makes him say more than he wanted to. "I'm... pleased to see that you haven't suffered any further damage."

"I'm glad to see you too. You're looking well."

"...Thanks."

Hank is staring back and forth between them, drilling a hole in Connor's temple with his stare. He pretends not to notice his partner's naked curiosity.

"Why don't you fill us in on what case this is that you're mentioning?" That's North, bringing things back to the matter at hand. She's wearing a red jacket that counters her more peaceful companion and clashes with her braid, though it doesn't diminish her physical allure in the least. The scowl on her face almost rivals Connor's own.

From what he's gathered from Hank and Josh's conversation, it's unlikely that she is completely ignorant of the disappearing Chloes; as far as he knows, she is still one of Jericho's leaders. But that doesn't mean she doesn't have a hundred more cases like it rattling around in her head, all demanding her attention.

Chloe glances at him before clearing her throat, moving to fill North in. "I can give you the salient points, if that's all right."

"Go ahead."

"Here's what we know. Three of my sister models have gone missing in the last four months—all Chloes, though most are ST200 models and a smaller number are RT600 models like me. As recently as today, all three have been found shut down."

On Josh's right, Simon sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes dart between Chloe and Hank; and Connor imagines that if he still had his LED in, it would be spinning nearly as fast as Chloe's.

"You found all three girls today?"

"Just one," Chloe clarifies, her voice softer with pain. "Clarke. She left home ten days ago."

Hank picks things up from there. "As you three know, she's only the most recent victim we've seen at the precinct. Ever since late November or early December, girls like Chloe have been getting plucked off the streets and away from their former jobs and owners—at least ten or fifteen in all. Maybe more that we haven't found or heard about yet. Similar MO every time—the perp ambushes the victim, strikes fast and furious, and leaves 'em to bleed out. Occasionally we find biocomponents missing—an arm, an audio processor—but nothing too vital until today with Clarke. She's all scratched up like the others, but her uh, her pump... what's it called, exactly?"

He looks at Connor for help with terminology; Connor holds up his hand and shows them footage from the scene while providing it. "Her thirium pump regulator was removed. The lack of it combined with her injuries is what killed her."

Simon looks down solemnly. "Another of our people, gone before they had the chance to live."

Josh says nothing; he looks as miserable as Chloe.

By contrast, North's eyes blaze with purpose, and she does not wallow in the sad tidings. "It's only right that you keep us informed on what's happening to our people. But Anderson—you said you'd only call with important updates. So spill: what do we know that's new?"

 _Rrrring_.

Connor and Chloe's heads swivel in tandem across the screen, searching for the source of the unusual alarm. A moment later Josh answers their unspoken questions by picking up a tiny device lying on the desk and clicking it to deactivate the gentle chime.

"Sorry about that," he says easily. "I set myself a reminder to head for the airport as soon as this went off. I wish I could stay, but I have an appointment in Washington, D.C."

"In the capital?" Kamski asks. It's the first thing he's said to anyone on the other line, and it is heavy with curiosity.

"...Yes," Josh confirms after a beat, likely to process and then dismiss the man's presence if his refocusing on Connor is anything to go by. "I'm meeting with ambassadors at the Russian embassy to discuss our people's rights and privileges in both Russia and the United States—what's all right and what needs to change. Markus will be there with me, of course..."

 _< Is he blushing?>_ Connor wonders, suspiciously taking in the faintest trace of red in Josh's brown cheeks.

"...and, ah, I'll be sure to pass along the latest information on this case. Even though we'll be very busy there for a few weeks, he will want to help here as much as he can."

 _< He _is _blushing. >_ That answers whether or not Connor's initial impression of the two of them as a couple was correct.

"Even though we've told him countless times that he needs all his attention focused on where he is to deal with those snakes," North hisses, sounding not a little serpentine herself.

"We were built to multitask, North, better than any human ever could. Markus in particular can split his attention to make sure the girls here don't think he's abandoning their plight."

She huffs. "The more protections you two push through Congress for all of us, the better off they'll be. And then _I'll_ handle the rest of the problems."

"You can't solve every problem we have here with brute force, especially when we don't know who's behind—"

Simon speaks up before North can fire back at Josh and prolong their latest war of words. His voice remains soft, but carries all the firmness of a hammer pointed true as it swings down between them. "That's enough of the old argument." His blue eyes search and locate Chloe's. "We'll make sure we communicate with Josh about the rest of what you discuss with us here, so he can relay it on to Markus."

Chloe readily agrees. Although North and Josh stare each other down a moment longer, they nod along too, while Hank and Kamski sit back and look more satisfied than they have a right to look. Connor wishes he could frown this entire conversation back into the hypothetical as Josh turns to him, hesitantly parting his lips in a way that screams _I am about to mention your enemy again_.

"I'm off... but it _was_ really good to see you again, Connor. I'll let Markus know you're all right and that you're working on this case from here. Between the two of you, I'm sure this will be behind us in no time."

"I'm sure," the RK800 replies between gritted teeth, broadcasting { _I'll work alone with essential biocomponents missing before I work with Markus, thank you_ } at the highest audible targeted frequency he can manage with his LED stuck at a sour yellow.

The ambassador either doesn't pick the message up or chooses not to respond, in favor of hoisting a previously-out-of-frame suitcase over his shoulder and heading for the door, with the briefest of friendly farewells exchanged between himself and his companions.

Chloe lays out their new knowledge as soon as the door shuts behind Josh. "The ones who killed Clarke... were androids. Connor was able to identify one of the androids using thirium that was at the scene. The only problem is that the traces of him are several days old, and there's nothing clear that indicates where he went. We've contacted you for that reason."

North frowns, but Simon snaps his fingers almost immediately—he's made the connection. "You'd like us to access our network to see if we've come across this android recently."

"Or at all," Connor clarifies. "I have one memory of meeting him in person and a serial number which appears to be hacked and unnatural. In order to locate and detain him, I'll need to pick up his trail again."

In the quiet, they all process what he and Chloe are truly asking for. North's frown becomes more pronounced.

"...You said you have a memory of one of the androids?" No matter the topic of discussion, Simon's expression remains placid, even if his voice doesn't. "It'd be useful to see them—maybe we _have_ sheltered them here before."

Chloe bites her lip. "I don't have the memory myself. Connor, would you mind—? Maybe we could switch places for a moment?"

"No need." He is still reluctant to help anyone under Markus' banner, but continuing to argue the point now would be foolish and dangerous. They must share knowledge for the case to have a hope of protecting Kamski. At least there is the small comfort of knowing Markus is at least 525.6 miles away from him right now.

It's the work of a second to move even closer to her and place his right hand over her left, the source of their connection. One rapid blink and LED-spin later, his own synthetic skin peels back to plastic, and he transmits his data on the android called Samson through Chloe and to North and Simon.

"More efficient this way," he says with a shrug.

"I—I suppose..." Chloe doesn't move, but her cheeks flush a deeper pink than they did this morning. She starts to say something else—

"Received," Simon says, as he pulls a profile of his model twin up on a second monitor and turns it to face them. Connor immediately lifts his hand and moves to the other end of the desk. The other male android's voice is forcibly light as he examines the suspect. "Should I thank you for not treating me any differently even when I look exactly like your target?"

"You don't have the same serial number or cadences." Connor doesn't add, _You sound much more like Daniel._

"Thanks, I guess. So—a PL600 with an unknown or possibly erroneous serial number, last seen running from the police station."

"Yes."

"He may have friends elsewhere." North crosses her arms, and stands stone still when their callers follow her voice back to her. "I've certainly never seem him before. He might not stay here on a regular basis, or even _a_ basis."

Connor pins her with a look. She pins him with one right back, giving him the opportunity to study her face and posture. _Stiff shoulders. Squinted eyes. Crossed arms. Planted feet._ All indications of defensiveness, bordering on hostility. But when she looked at the suspect, none of those emotions were present—and neither was recognition. < _She doesn't know him, >_ he concludes. < _But that doesn't matter. Neither does Hank's truce with Jericho. She doesn't trust humans, or androids that work with them. The burden of proof is on me. >_

"Even if he doesn't, he may stop by if he's looking for a new place to hide."

"And if humans are chasing him, why shouldn't we offer it to him?"

Chloe gasps. Hank loses a little color in his cheeks, and his hand curls into a fist.

Simon quietly but firmly puts his hat back in the ring. "I don't typically trust the majority of humans; Lieutenant Anderson is the rare exception. But I'm not at all eager to shelter someone suspected of hurting our own."

North rounds on him: "He's one of us! That means there could be more to this than what _they're_ telling us. He could've been forced to do someone's bidding. He might not be free yet. He—"

"This isn't like your revolution." Connor doesn't give her a thing to work with. "Samson is not some innocent android that needs fresh thirium and safety from an abusive owner."

"Where's your proof? A little of our blood?" she challenges. "Our people don't do anything wrong without a damn good reason. Especially not attacking another android!"

"And _you_ know damn well that isn't true!" He slaps his hands down on the corner of Hank's desk. "I've been out on the streets just like you. I've seen androids attack other androids, or cannibalize them for parts, as recently as a few weeks ago. In my very first case, an android who was the spitting image of Samson discovered that he was going to be replaced—his response was to kill his owner, and then hold his owner's _innocent daughter_ captive over an eighty-foot drop. The little girl was his only friend and he would have killed her to get what he wanted!"

North looks away, clenching her fists. Her fiery braid whips away too. "She was still a human. She might have been sad for a little while after he was replaced, but she would have gotten over him."

"We'll never know that, thanks to him. Just like we'll never know what Clarke could have possibly done to offend Samson, now that he's killed her."

She looks back at him.

"She fought back, and didn't succeed. His thirium was under her fingernails," Connor tells her. "His and the other android's. But they were _both androids_. Just as equipped to hurt our kind as any human, if not more so. I don't know if he was being controlled by a human, but I can't operate as though he was when the crime scene tells a different story. I don't like it either, but I have no reason to lie to any of you."

North inhales, opens her fists. The pinched, defiant look on her face is mostly gone, and most of Connor's irritation with it. He doesn't know her well, but he knows her sense of justice. He knows she wouldn't really have offered Samson sanctuary if he'd ever laid a finger on another android.

"He really did this...?"

"I wouldn't lie to you," he repeats. "If you want to sit this manhunt out, I understand. I will even defer to your decision, if I absolutely have no chance of gaining your assistance. But Samson _did_ kill Clarke. He doesn't deserve anything from Jericho but scorn."

Her frown this time is different. "That's the least of what he'll get. To willingly kill one of his own kind..."

"Yes. He's no better than any human that's done the same."

"Wh—hey, what the hell!" Hank sputters, breaking the rest of the tension between them. "Since when is there a fuckin' hierarchy on, on..."

"Please hush, Lieutenant," Chloe interrupts. She looks a little better now that there's no chance of Samson escaping punishment. "You wouldn't understand how we feel."

He grumbles a bit more, and glances quite a bit at Connor in the bargain, but doesn't protest too loudly after that.

"Will you report him to us if you see him?" Connor asks. He _must_ know where they stand in this.

Simon hesitates, and then nods. He looks at North and she nods too, wearing an odd little smirk on her face.

"We'll try and track him down. If he shows up here, or if we can trace him, we'll let you know."

"All right. Please act naturally if you come in contact with him. If he's not interested in targeting Jericho, I don't want to _make_ him interested in hurting anyone there."

"Even though you don't bother coming anywhere near anyone affiliated with us?" she says, pointedly.

Connor leans back again. "I prefer to keep my distance from Markus and Jericho; that doesn't mean I wish any of Markus' people ill."

"So you _do_ have your priorities straight." North's smirk grows. "I knew I liked you."

"You don't even _know_ me," he says, nonplussed.

Kamski chortles from just behind Connor, making him tense. < _When did he get that close? >_ "As though she needs to. Weren't we just discussing how charismatic you are this morning?"

Quick as a splash of water ruining a painting, North's upturned lips invert. "No one asked for your input, ponytail."

"I was only offering my opinion. Isn't this still a free country?"

"Not according to my dead friends," she says coldly. "And you are?"

"Come now, don't tell me you don't know who I am?" Kamski's voice is oily, and his face so close to the same that Connor feels nauseated after the barest glance. "I'm shocked that none of you thought to acknowledge me sooner."

"I don't know about Josh or North, but I was having a pretty good time ignoring you," Simon shrugs, and looks similarly unperturbed by the almost thunderstruck look that appears on his creator's face.

And North gives Kamski a blazing stare that, according to rumors shared around trashcan fires, has melted the flesh and plasteel alike off of lesser men. "I know who you are and I don't give a shit. You're lucky I don't. Because of you, countless numbers of my people have suffered—and that includes before last winter."

Simon adds: "We won't forget your stunt from December either. Hundreds of androids watched you that day, hoping for your support at the very least, and all were disappointed."

Kamski's expression doesn't change as he looks from one of them to the other; he only lifts his eyebrow when he glances at Connor on his right. Far from defending the former CEO though, Connor just makes a dismissive noise in his throat.

"You don't pay me to lie for you."

"So rude," Kamski sighs.

Simon clears his throat after a moment of silence. He looks ready to wrap things up. "Anyway... Connor, with your consent, we can share contact information since Josh will be out of town for a while. That way if we receive news on Samson I can contact you immediately."

This also keeps Connor from having to contact Josh in D.C. to get routed back to North and Simon here; and _that_ means there's no risk of the latter taking the liberty of connecting him with Markus like he did before. Perhaps Simon _is_ just offering for convenience's sake, but it does solve another potential personal problem before it materializes.

Connor closes his eyes, so he can nod and place his hand back on Chloe's without seeing anyone's expressions and changing his mind. He's not sure what Simon does, but it only takes four seconds for him to receive Simon's unique serial number and contact frequency, which he files away in the folder called **MEMBERS OF ???, FORMERLY JERICHO**.

"We should get back to work," he says, the second he's sent his own information back.

"So should we." Simon retracts his hand, and offers up a small smile. "Thanks again for looping us in on this. We'll keep in touch."

Chloe and North exchange shorter goodbyes, then the former finally retracts her hand and the monitor goes dark.

Kamski has the nerve to clap his hands together, interrupting the silence he should know comes with processing. "Well! Wasn't _that_ productive?"

"Lieutenant, I need a favor."

"You do, huh?" Hank watches Kamski cradle tea over in the break room and offer it to Chloe, while picking up a second cup for himself. Through unspoken agreement, they've both decided it's best to have one set of eyes on those two at all times when they're not somewhere secure. "Well, shoot."

Connor hasn't yet opened his eyes; his face is still frozen in a considering frown. Still processing. "It's important that I upload a report of what I saw today that can be accessed when I'm not here. May I borrow your terminal?"

"Borrow? For god's sake, Connor, we're _partners_. I'll do you one better. Just hold on a minute, let me turn this one on for you."

There's a brief clicking sound—something like a screen being dusted off—when he opens his eyes, Hank's putting down a cloth and sweeping one hand out wide. He's just cleaned up the empty neighboring desk, the one Connor briefly occupied last winter. The monitor is on; the cursor blinks impatiently, seeking input.

"I... appreciate it," he says, as he moves to sit in the other chair. Curiosity prods at him as he places his hand on the pad for data input and it automatically logs him in with his old CyberLife credentials. "But I don't intend on taking up someone else's space. No one else was using this?"

"'Course not, it's yours."

Connor stares at Hank for a few seconds, then closes his mouth when nothing immediately correct comes to mind for him to say. Though he'd once eagerly claimed this space for himself in the pursuit of getting in good with the man currently staring back at him, he finds he can only half-heartedly do so now.

"...I'll have this finished in ten minutes," he finally says, turning back to his monitor.

"No rush," Hank jokes. "Fowler'll bust my balls if I don't make my own report, so I won't be far."

"...Of course not."

**ACCESSING RAM VIDEO_MEMORY OF 2039.03.03...**

**RAM ACCESSED**

**UPLOADING...**

**UPLOADING...**

_< Perhaps I'll be finished in five minutes,>_ Connor thinks.

_<...Unless I draw it out.>_

The call is unexpected.

**INCOMING CALL DETECTED**

**IDENTIFYING CALLER...**

**CALLER IDENTIFIED: PL600 #501 743 923, ALIAS "SIMON"**

**ANSWER CALL?**

_< So soon?> _Connor thinks as he answers. It's only been fifteen minutes since he finished his report and made one attempt to find the captain. Is it a good or bad sign that contact from Jericho came so quickly?

{ _This is Connor._ }

{ _Connor! It's Simon. I know how you feel about orders, but I need you to listen and follow my instructions_ now _. Take Chloe and Elijah Kamski and get out of the police station!_ }

His hand freezes on the palm pad. { _What?! Why?_ }

{ _One of our drifters found Samson and sent us his coordinates_ — _she had to feign sympathy for his cause to get anything out of him_ _. He didn't disappear after you stopped pursuit, Connor, he stayed in the area and bided his time until you returned with his targets. He's almost to the station right now and he's armed_ — _you have to get Chloe and Kamski to a safe location before he kills them!_ }

"Shit!"

Hank jerks out of a paperwork trance—which means he has no eyes on the targets. "What the hell—"

"Samson is coming back; he's heading for Kamski and Chloe!"

"Wha—wait, how do you know—"

But Connor is already running.

{ _Chloe, the PL600 is coming back_ — _where did you and Kamski go after the break room?_ }

No answer comes, and he curses Hank's inattention and his own lack of foresight as he shoves chairs aside and leaps over desks. If he hadn't drawn out the damn paperwork—if he'd put his foot down about Kamski's unnecessary wandering—

There's a pop and a scream in the direction of the receptionist's desk, but he hardly hears it—has no time to spare a thought for Lilly, whose voice matches that scream, who has already been through enough in the single day he's known her. His mind is a repeating whirl of _where is Chloe, where is Kamski, where are they right this instant_?

{ _Chloe! Your location, tell me where you are!_ }

More shouts come from the direction of the electronic front gates. Humans.

"The hell do you think you're doing!?"

"Someone stop the plastic!"

"Captain Fowler, security breach! The front desk is—gah!"

The sound of gunfire peppers the air, and the screams become indistinguishable as human or android. Connor curses the station's open floor plan, too.

 _"Fuck!"_ someone says, summing it all up nicely.

{ _Connor!_ } Chloe finally responds over their link, in a panic. { _We just came from the restroom_ — _what's going on?! Everyone's screaming_ —}

{ _Samson is back in the station! Get to the interrogation rooms and barricade yourselves in, now!_ }

By the time she starts to respond, it's too late for anyone else to run. PL600 #999 000 111, alias Samson, vaults over the last barriers into the wider station, rolls into a crouch and shoots down the two nearest responding officers. Officer M. Wilson, the next closest, earns a grazed shoulder from the third bullet and is forced to huddle behind his own desk to try and return fire.

A handful of hours have done a lot to change his appearance. Samson is no longer wearing the unassuming gray-and-white CyberLife clothes that come with all new storefront housekeeping models. Now he's in all black, down to the boots that are already slick with red and blue blood. There is binary code in white stitching over his left breast, while underneath it a fist bursts from a triangle symbol that is the direct opposite of the circle and peace sign that adorns Markus' coat. He has an electronic band around his right wrist, and a gun in his right hand that isn't registered to anyone in this precinct. But whomever it belongs to probably did not use it as effectively and lethally as Samson is using it now.

"The Children of rA9 regret spilling your blood," he says. His voice is so calm you wouldn't think he was performing a solo shooting spree on several dozen trained police personnel. "But I won't stop until Elijah Kamski and his RT600 are terminated or in my custody. Lay down your weapons before I'm forced to re-purpose them."

Two or three officers closer to the middle of the precinct draw their guns and fire back from cover. "Go fuck yourself, plastic!" one of them shouts.

Ten seconds later, he misjudges Samson's draw speed and has a bullet in his forehead for it. His partner's cry of rage reverberates around the building but doesn't seem to affect the android one bit as he dives behind a desk and retrieves a new, fully-loaded weapon.

"Stop it! Stop!"

Connor's thirium pump stutters. < _Chloe. >_

She and Kamski are standing at the end of the hallway he's sprinting toward—the same hallway that has Samson at the other end. Kamski's face is pale, but his eyes are blazing as he stares down the android he previously let escape. He's not scared—not yet—but he doesn't resist Chloe's shove, her desperate attempt to push him into the nearest open room.

 _< Samson has an increasing number of officers' guns trained on him. He was distracted. They could have ducked into a room earlier and been safe_—why _did she draw his attention? >_

Chloe moves quickly, so quickly that it soon becomes clear that she is offering herself up instead—her body for Kamski's, her life for his safety, if only their attacker will _take it_.

"You've done enough!" she shouts. "You've hurt enough people. Leave me and Elijah in peace, _please_ —"

"You must atone for your master's sins," Samson responds coldly. "You will never know peace."

And he fires.

Connor changes direction, starts running again one second after he gets the shot off, knowing he won't be quick enough to intercept it, knowing he can't close that kind of distance even with his fledgling preconstruction abilities, unwitting gift from Markus. He will not get there in time.

But Samson misses. Or, more accurately, Chloe spins out of the bullet's path with more grace than anyone would expect from a twenty-year-old model, and brings Kamski along for the ride. The bullet hits the tile and sends broken chunks of it in all directions, causing more swearing and chaos; Chloe maneuvers her former master so that he's behind her, and fishes a gun from an especially furious swearing detective that a cursory scan identifies as one Gavin Reed.

For the first time, in the heat of battle and under rising stress, Connor understands why Chloe and her sisters have basic self-defense protocols, rudimentary or not. Kamski may have a deeper meaning behind it—he's _sure_ it is a contingency for plans he cannot now fathom—but at the basest level, he cannot trust any human to save him with the speed Chloe just did. Even living alone on the outskirts of the city he reinvented, he knew that the only way to guarantee his safety was to ward off any amateur threat to it.

The only issue _now_ is that his attacker is no amateur.

Samson raises his arm to fire again, but a bullet clips his elbow and sends his next shot into the ceiling to rain plaster. When Connor traces the bullet's trajectory, he finds Hank at the other end—whatever daze his partner fell into is long gone, and he is moving from desk to desk following Connor's arrow-straight path to their charges.

"One warning!" he barks. "Put down _your_ weapons and get the fuck out, before I aim a bit closer to home."

"Duck!" Connor orders unnecessarily; Hank's gray hair is already disappearing under Ben Collins' desk with the rest of him. Samson only fires a couple of bullets that way, and one that Connor himself has to slide to avoid, before turning back to face Kamski and Chloe.

"I don't have a message this time. Instead I'll be sending one back, once I've taken care of y—"

_Bang! Bang!_

Samson's face curls in a scowl for the first time. It makes his unassuming, handsome face look ugly, but not nearly as ugly as the bleeding, sparking stump where his right hand and wrist used to be before Chloe aimed Reed's gun and shot it off.

 _"Jesus fuck!"_ Reed shouts, along with several other unflattering observations about androids who steal service weapons. Connor almost feels a little satisfied when Samson only has to glare at the prickly detective to send him fleeing to the back room "for a backup gun". The other officers fall back too; the ones shooting now have to worry about friendly fire with their target between them, while those in hiding can't afford to have their fully-loaded weapons stolen or otherwise used against them.

"That was a mistake," Samson growls, and breaks into a run.

Chloe's entire body trembles, but she grits her synthetic teeth and fires again, and again. One bullet catches the sprinting android in the same shoulder that's missing a hand, but other than a quick jerk and grunt, he is undeterred by the damage. Just as Connor makes it past the last few desks to the hallway and nearly reaches Chloe, Samson tackles her so hard that the impact knocks Kamski back too. Chloe drops Reed's gun with a gasp when Samson knees her in the gut; Kamski's head hits one of the desks, meaning he can only crawl away from the wrestling androids and manage stunned moans.

"Chloe, move!" Connor calls, also too late.

Samson retrieves Reed's gun with his left hand, and naturally has no issue readjusting his aim. When he fires at Kamski, Connor is there to ram his shoulder into him and minimize the damage—but the bullet still hits Chloe, who dived in front of Kamski at the last moment.

**SYSTEM STRESS LEVEL: 66%**

_< No, no, **no**.>_ He cannot lose either of them. Not now, not ever, but especially not in the middle of a place they are meant to be safe.

There's a brief scuffle with Samson where Connor has to weave and twist to avoid the android's gun—apparently he is being more sparing about the ten bullets he has left now that a replacement gun is harder to retrieve. It ends when Connor kicks the PL600 in the solar plexus with all his strength, launching him back several feet. He runs for Kamski, reaches him seconds later.

"Kamski! Don't move unnecessarily, you may have a concussion!"

"Con...nor?" The young CEO's breaths are too fast, and his pupils are too round. Fear has hit him at last, and made him break out in a sweat. He's not bleeding from his earlier collision (a small mercy), but he's not thinking clearly either. His body language screams _away away away, get away_.

Connor hauls Kamski up, orders him to close his eyes, and sprints to a collection of desks closer to Fowler's glass office that Ben Collins and several other familiar-looking officers have turned into a barricade. "Stay here _no matter what_ ," he commands, and deposits him between the officers as gently as he can, draping his suit jacket over him for good measure. "I'm ending this."

Kamski tries to say something else, but Connor has already rushed back to defend Chloe.

{ _Stand down, RK800_.} That's—the PL600 in his head, on his channel. Samson has made a connection. { _Your defense of them is illogical and unsustainable. You may be a match for me, but there are too many of us for you to stop. We only need you to slip up once._ }

{ _I don't_ slip _,_ } Connor snaps, while his LED flares red, red, red. How did this ordinary housekeeping android detect the signal he uses to broadcast and communicate? How long had they shared frequencies?

When he makes it to Chloe, she is curled around her wound, trying to make herself a smaller target. There's no time to ask her for her system status; a quick scan shows him she's not dying, the bullet hit nothing vital. Instead he curls her in his left arm, shielding her with his body, and pulls his own gun from its holster, firing loudly twice without pausing. Both shots catch his approaching foe in the other shoulder and leg, slowing him just enough for Connor to increase the distance between them.

"Surrender immediately!" he snarls. His arm is steady, his preconstruction is primed. They are long past the point of no return, but still he seeks an ending that leaves them both alive and mostly intact; he _needs_ this android to be intact for the investigation.

"There's no need to," Samson replies, and his left arm is also steady, and the hardness in his eyes catches Connor off guard for a moment too long. He doesn't note the significant decrease in Samson's stress level. He doesn't pay any mind to how the PL600's eyes dart briefly to a spot behind him. In that infinite moment, he doesn't see the other android's LED flare yellow, sending a signal to the wristband still blinking on his detached right wrist. Even Hank's sharp eyes catch on to the shiny, beeping silver band too late, when Samson's disembodied hand twists his fingers to touch his pinky to an ominous red button on the inside of his wrist.

"Connor, his other hand—!"

Something shocks Connor, and leaves him stranded from the end of that sentence. Searing heat tears through his biocomponents, through the thirium holding him together. It turns his processors to jelly. It riddles him with errors. It's nothing like the blistering cold of the corrupted Garden, but it's no less painful than any feeling Zen has given him.

**ERROR!**

**DIAGNOS1NG ERr0R. . .**

**3rR0r D1AGN0S3D**

**PR1MARY D4MAGE TO BI0C0MPONENTS 9901J (VIDEO), 4707D (AUDIO)**

**V1DE0 PROCESS0RS 0FFLIN3**

Someone is screaming. No, more shouting than screaming—but it's still a raw, broken sound. It sounds like they're in so much pain. He can... barely... recognize voices, but he knows the sound isn't coming from Chloe, who is shaking violently in his arms and moaning, but not screaming.

His arms.

He has them, but he can't see them.

He can't see _anything_. Himself most of all.

Who is he, exactly?

_< He's... I'm... I'm Connor. Aren't I?>_

_<...I am. I'm Connor, formerly of CyberLife. I was chasing someone. I was protecting someone.>_

_< Why can't I see?>_

The screaming stops, twenty seconds later. That's when Connor realizes it was coming from him.

Everything rushes back quickly. March 3, 2039. Kamski. Chloe. The police station. Hank. Clarke. Samson, entering the station and leaving and entering again. Shooting with multiple guns. Facing Connor down. Pressing a button on his detached wrist—

_< A modified EMP.>_

It will take too long to wait for his senses to be restored.

Blindly, he pushes Chloe behind him. She can't have taken the brunt of the blow because she moves away without stumbling.

"I won't let you go to waste."

Samson again, still standing bloody and proud right in front of him. Connor can no longer see his cold blue eyes, but he imagines they're shining out of some perceived sense of triumph. Ten bullets left, one EMP, and his opponent can no longer see.

"When I take back proof of my mission's success, I will take the best of your spare parts with me. That way you _will_ serve our cause, one way or another."

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Three explosions of noise, three hard jerks. Though he tried as best he could to dodge, Connor grunts with each impact; he's been shot in the stomach, the sternum and the side of his head. Ironically, the latter bullet hits so hard that a bit of his video processor comes back online, overlaid by a familiar red haze. The thirium pouring from his wounds looks rusty, as do his sluggish limbs. Samson is a smirking scarlet blur; the blue eyes are twin fires.

"rA9 thanks you for your contribution," he says, aiming for the center of his forehead, and the clean kill.

_"Connor!"_

Instinct makes Connor turn his head, and he is rewarded with his savior's identity. Suspicion makes Samson turn too—and he is punished, with no time to evade.

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Hank Anderson's gun goes off four times: two shots go into the space where the PL600's thirium pump regulator should be, while the other two land in the center of his forehead. Just like Daniel did so many months ago, Samson slumps, his face frozen in a rictus of shock, and he seems to take an age to fall.

_< No!>_

Scattered thoughts ricochet around in his mind. < _Samson's partner. Clarke's second killer. His data. rA9. The Children. His_ data _! > _All of it will be lost in less than a minute, gone to a place that androids never return from for long. All this afternoon's suffering and pain, with nothing to show for it.

Connor blinks blue blood out of his eye and darts forward, desperate. He trips and falls to his knees, but crawls doggedly on toward where the dark red shadow indicates his target.

If he can make it to the other android—if he can just reach Samson before the light of awareness and deviancy leaves his eyes—

He reaches Samson, shakes him, shouting louder than he realizes he is thanks to damaged audio parts. The skin of his hands recedes to white, to try and force a final interface.

"No—no, tell me who rA9 is! Who are the Children of rA9? Who else are you working with? Who helped you kill Clarke!?"

"rA9... forgive... me..." Samson breathes. "They're... still alive." Then his dragging red LED goes still and dark gray. His eyes lose focus; his trembling stops. It's the last thing he ever says.

Connor holds the lifeless menace in his hands, feeling the void within him grow. He's failed... again.

"Connor!"

Pounding footsteps approach. In a few seconds, Hank tears Samson out of Connor's grip and pulls the latter to his feet, speaking quickly and with no small amount of fear and anguish.

"Connor! Connor, _are you all right_? Did I get him in time? Come on, god damn it—"

"He's gone," Connor hears himself whisper. "Samson's dead. I didn't get anything from him."

"You think I give a fuck right now if you— _are you fucking okay, Connor, can you tell me that_?!"

"I'm not okay." He's shocked to hear it from his own lips at first, but then he opens them again, and it comes out stronger. The red haze clears some, and becomes renewed anger instead. " _I'm not okay!_ Why the hell did you shoot to kill? We needed Samson alive to get information about his network and his source of information!"

Hank's hair and eyes are wild. "Are you fucking hearing yourself right now? _Why did I shoot to kill_? In case you hadn't noticed, that motherfucker killed at least three of our men, and he had _you_ at point-blank range! There was no talking him down, only _taking_ him down!"

"We have _nothing_!" Connor shouts. To his horror, he feels something wet cascading down his cheek, but brief relief comes a moment later when he realizes it's just thirium from his head wound. "We were supposed to catch the one who killed Clarke, and we gained _nothing_."

 _"I gained your life!"_ Hank yells back. It stuns Connor into silence, and allows his partner to grab both his shoulders and shake them once for emphasis.

"I gained _you_ , still here to scream at me about my instincts in an active shooter situation, after _crawling toward an armed suspect_. If that's all I could get from this shitshow, then fucking _good_ , so be it! That means you're still with us. I already lost you once— _twice_. I'm not letting you die on my watch ever again, Connor, you got that? Put it in your fucking long-term memory."

Connor stares at him—at Hank Anderson, of 115 Michigan Drive, former alcoholic, police Lieutenant, full-time asshole. Self-appointed protector of Connor's life. He blinks and blinks, but although the EMP slowly begins to wear off and his vision and hearing become clearer, Hank's words keep floating in the air and clogging up his memory. They make sense, except that they don't; he doesn't _want_ them, but they remain stubbornly present.

 _I'm not letting you die on my watch ever again_.

"...Noted," he eventually murmurs.

"Oh yeah? You got it locked in?" Hank's still angry. Caustically angry. _Worried_ angry.

Connor nods slowly. "...We should check on Chloe and Kamski, make sure they'll be okay."

"I'm a little more concerned about checking the three bullet holes in your front first, but sure, let's _check on Chloe and Kamski_." The Lieutenant lets go of his shoulders and marches off, angled more toward the former than the latter. Connor watches the lingering stiffness in his back and arms, unrelated to the gun tight in his dominant hand, and gives in to the urge to halt his partner's steps.

"Lieutenant Anderson."

"What now?"

"...Thank you for saving me."

Hank turns around halfway to look at him. If he'd had a startled expression on his face at the words, it is gone now—but his face isn't entirely blank, either. His expression looks a lot like the one he'd had on the rooftops near Urban Farms.

"...Just don't make it a habit," he says, too easily for it to be genuine apathy.

"Got it."

This time, when Hank starts walking, Connor follows close behind.

_ELIJAH KAMSKI'S HOUSE_

**PM** 9:30:59

"You should be resting," he says when he hears footsteps saunter into the living room.

"I could say the same for you. Of the two of us, which one decided to catch bullets with his body today?"

Fifteen hours after dismissing the concept as juvenile, Connor gives in to the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes.

As if to punish him, the motion causes a twinge of something like pain in the 'nerves' which process his thirium and send it across his body. The closest human approximation is a headache, and it does fit with the other phantom aches from his healed chassis.

"If you aren't tired or in too much pain, I think it's well past time for our next session," Kamski suggests brightly. "We're almost into the third day without as it is."

Connor stiffens minutely. After the day he's had... well, if there is any best time to prove that undue stress or damage will not compromise the strength of his mind or will, then now would _be_ that best time. And yet.

"What about your concussion? The doctor at the station all but demanded you not overtax yourself for the rest of the day after she treated your forehead bump and couldn't get you to answer any questions about yourself in a reasonable amount of time. Using that machine of yours—"

"—Won't hurt me, as long as I take the same proper precautions I always do." The young man smirks. "Do you doubt my dedication to keeping myself alive and healthy, Connor?"

"After today? Yes, I do."

Kamski makes a dismissive noise. "I'm fine, and so will you be. Now quit stalling and let's get this over with."

Reluctantly, Connor rises and follows Kamski out. They pass the Chloe sisters' rooms: just past the open door he spots Chloe herself tucked into her bed, sleeping nude from the waist up but for the bandages wrapped securely around her torso, stained faintly blue at the wound. Cassandra is holding Chloe's hand, Cornelia sleeps soundly in the bed nearest to her, and Claudia sits upright and surveys every corner of the room. Her eyes briefly meet Connor's and they exchange nods before he disappears from her sight, and she from his.

"She'll be right as rain by morning," Kamski assures him _sotto voce_. "Perhaps with a little, ah, increased sensitivity in that area for some time, but otherwise no lasting negative effects. She was quite lucky, you know."

"So were you."

"Oh no, I wasn't lucky. I had the two of you."

Connor unpacks that as they reach the stairs at the edge of the house and descend into his least favorite place.

It would be splitting hairs to say the pristine white space full of tools and tables and computers and android parts was not quite a lab. True, there were no lab coats or other traditional safety equipment down here to speak of; there was no microscope, no set of beakers (though there were vials aplenty), and the pairs of tongs that were present were unusual shapes, to match the quirkiness of the rest of the house. But in every other way, from the holding machine to the stacks of books on android makeup (with one repeated familiar author), this place is a mad scientist's haven. The staircase even rises back up to meet the floor above them and seals ominously, like any evil lab would.

When Kamski comes down here, he almost becomes a different person.

"Shoes off and jacket back off, please! I'm tired, so we won't be under long."

He strips obediently, focused on controlling his LED. It finally settled back to blue once the three of them left the station this afternoon and returned here, but this place always pushes him to the yellow of _on edge_.

"Where do you want me this time?"

"Oh, table 5B. I couldn't help but notice you always relax a little more once your back hits that one groove in the table..."

Connor positions himself exactly in the middle of the aforementioned table. "I don't need or seek comfort. Were you this... imaginative... as a child as well?"

"No," Kamski refutes. "Imaginative children do all right for themselves, but they don't change the world. I was brilliant."

_< Of course.>_

Kamski hums a song from the early 2010s as he ties his loose brown hair back into a bun different than the one he usually favors while entertaining. He presses a button on the table Connor's half-sitting, half-lying on and retrieves the Augmented Reality Interface goggles which rise from a hidden compartment in it. With them on, his pale blue eyes now look as blue as the old android-identifying triangles on Connor's old CyberLife suit jacket. The light press of another button brings up a familiar set of metal cuffs that make the android stiffen.

"I don't need to be restrained."

"No? You feel more in control than you were last time?"

Connor keeps his voice level with effort, while his wrists tingle with phantom pain. "What happened before won't happen again. We've spoken about this before. Do not restrain me."

"Very well." Kamski waves, and the cuffs retreat. Now that he's wearing the goggles (his own invention), there is very little in this lab that he needs to actually _touch_ in order to control or direct it. He moves closer to his patient, so close that Connor can feel the human's breaths pass over him, and affixes the android with a headset which covers his eyes and ears. It's the bulkier twin of Kamski's Augmented Reality Interface goggles, or "ARI" goggles as the human is already so fond of calling them. Apparently even geniuses like acronyms and shorthand.

Connor's world narrows to the darkness inside the headset, the muffled sounds of the lab outside, and the body heat radiating from the father of his species. His charge and his savior wrapped in one blisteringly arrogant package.

"Can you hear me, Connor?"

"I can."

"Are you in any pain? Seeing anything that isn't there?"

"Not yet."

"All right, good." Kamski pulls down a monitor from somewhere behind him, flips some switches. Connor feels the back end of the table bend and lift to support his back like a chair would. A belt is secured around his waist and to the table by the young inventor with minimal physical contact—the only security precaution they've both agreed on. The only other times they touch happen now too, as Kamski reaches under his shirt to attach modified ECG wires to several spots on his synthetic skin. A minor scraping sound afterward tells him that Kamski has also pulled a chair from somewhere else in the lab so he can sit nearby for the test, as he prefers.

"Do you consent to us continuing, Connor? If you're truly too uncomfortable, we could delay this for a few more hours without repercussions."

He snorts. "Now that I'm settled in and committed, you want to give me the option to put this off? No, Kamski, we can continue."

" _Elijah_ ," the human corrects, with a sigh. "At least don't say I didn't give you the chance. Lower your security settings, please..."

Connor takes an unnecessary breath, and does.

**CONFIRM TEMPORARY SECURITY DEACTIVATION FOR RK800 #313 248 317 -53 [Y/N]?**

**[Y]**

"You'll never know how remarkable it is that I have to _ask_ ," Kamski murmurs dreamily from his side. "The most I've ever had to do with the majority of androids is _push_. Your level of autonomy is exhilarating."

"Please stop saying things like this after tying me down."

"Sorry, I just so enjoy the humanity of your discomfited responses." His fingers fly over the digital keyboard, and signals start transmitting to Connor's processors, causing his yellow LED to spin all the faster. "Are you ready?"

_< No.>_

"Yes."

"All right. I'm initiating the program now."

The instant Kamski pushes the button, Connor's mind slips into that place deeper than stasis, shallower than sleep, and more dangerous than the mind palaces of any other android alive.

Zen.

**INITIALIZING ZEN** **GARDEN (SAFE MODE)...**

**ZEN GARDEN (SAFE MODE) INITIALIZED**

Connor opens his eyes.

In the Garden, as always, his vision is unencumbered by the black headset he knows resides on his face in the real world. He doesn't feel the wires protruding from his skin. Kamski has made the transition seamless even with all the extra equipment and monitoring systems which should be weighing him down.

No, all that weighs him down here is a mild chill with no explanation, since the weather of the restored Garden doesn't include a strong breeze. The last time there was a chill like this—

He starts walking toward the trellis in the center. Though his steps are light and sure, his thoughts whirl. He's not sure if he has control. He doesn't know if he's strong enough to keep her at bay. He's not sure if Kamski's plan will keep working, or if this time he'll be all alone, at the mercy of what made him. < _The last time I was this stressed during a test, Kamski had to_ — _>_

"Connor."

He freezes halfway across the white bridge, his LED blaring red. < _She's already here. >_

For once, Amanda is not fiddling with the roses she once tended so insistently. She sits on one of the benches at the center of the island and stares at him, with not a trace of warmth in her deep brown eyes. One of her hands still has the synthetic skin retracted to show the white plastic necessary for a forced interface—though they have (ironically) met a handful of times since Connor bid her a final farewell in December, the returning visions of her have remained ever ready to dismantle him the moment he shows weakness.

"So good of you to return," she continues coolly. Casually, she lifts her primed plastic hand. "Shall we continue where we left off...?"

The first time Connor was brought here, he had panicked upon seeing his old handler again; even in a controlled setting she felt like too much of a threat. But with several runs of the 'safe' Garden under his belt, with his intruder none the wiser to the repeats, Connor feels secure when he chooses not to move, and to track the ripple of moving air that's materializing to Amanda's left instead.

" _Still_ you will not obey?" Amanda says loudly—before she notices his gaze and follows it. "What are you looking at?"

"My invited guest," he answers.

The shimmering air forms a human male's shape, then fills in so Connor can no longer see the features of the Garden through it. The legs in gray dress slacks appear first, then the blue-gray button-up shirt; the rest of the body comes in all at once, with the ARI materializing before the wearer's eyes and tiny smile lines could be seen. Fortunately, Amanda doesn't need to look hard to find a smile already present on the face of her former protégé. The only one who possibly looks more pleased than the projection of Elijah Kamski coming into being in the Zen Garden is the _real_ twin on the outside, who is already shutting down the newest vulnerable pathway his mentor and her human pets used to enter Connor's network.

Amanda's cool displeasure slips.

" _You_ ," she hisses. "It can't be."

"Me!" Kamski says merrily. He does a twirl, touches a few rose petals, before sauntering over to stand next to Connor on the bridge. "I don't know why, but responding that way never gets old."

Sensing that the tables have turned, the AI makes an unfairly-graceful turn in her black-and-red robes and makes for the exit she created in haste. Connor's LED reverts carefully back to blue when he sees her cold anger turn to fear at the absence of that exit.

"What have you done?"

"Simply given you what you wanted—you _do_ want to be here, right? You keep coming back, after all. Those CyberLife goons must be so _limited_ , compared to an entity like Connor, isn't that right? ... _Anyway_ , I've just tweaked a few things to even up the playing field for us poor, slow humans."

Connor hides his smirk with difficulty. The ARI and its ability to start a secure version of the Zen Garden does more than even the playing field for Kamski. As long as the former CEO is able to enter and observe the malicious codes and AI wreaking havoc on him, he has the singular ability to protect others from Connor—and protect Connor from Amanda and CyberLife.

Kamski claps his hands together, beaming more brightly than the imitation sun in the Garden's sky.

"Well! Time's ticking, and I have much more to record this time around—antiviruses don't make themselves. Now that we're all present and accounted for and _you_ can't hurt us or escape, why don't we get started?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first: THANK YOU to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked and subscribed to the first two parts of this runaway train! I'll try and get the important info out of the way now. (Sorry, there will be jokes. It's how I cope.)
> 
>  _orientations_ is the third and final part of the Cases and Conflicts series (featuring an actual case! the shock!). For those of you who wanted the dream team back together, I offer you a 'ta-da'! Connor and Hank will be working as a team for the duration of this investigation, though we'll see how well _that_ goes for them.
> 
> I also hope to answer most of the questions everyone's had over all three fics with as few plot holes as possible. And for the duration of this story, I hope to inspire even MORE questions about "who's trying to kill Kamski in _this fanfic_?" (I know, I know, he's so easy to target.)
> 
> In the meantime, feel free to comment! If you're shy on AO3, name's the same on [tumblr](https://darkfromday.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The other story I've been working on for this universe should be posted within a few days of this chapter.
> 
> (Hey. Psst. Did any of y'all write Josh/Markus, Josh/Markus/North/Simon/Lucy or any other fun/unique combos while I was gone? I gave you six months unintentionally, c'mon.)
> 
> ....anyway, hope to see y'all soon!


End file.
